


We Danced Into The Fire And Look Where It Got Us

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [7]
Category: Arcadia (UK Band), Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos), The Power Station (Supergroup)
Genre: A/B/O verse, Addiction, Albums, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Baby Planning, Band, Band Break Up, Band split, Blood, Blood Play, Cocaine, Dark Room, Drinking, Drugs, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Live Aid, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Models, Mpreg, Music Videos - Freeform, One Night Stands, Pining John, Play That Fucking Bass, Porn with Feelings, Reunion, Reveal, Rough Sex, Sex for Favors, Sick Fic, Touring, alcoholic, baby proofing, break ups, due dates, falling in love all over again, film premier, photoshoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 92,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: John isn’t the same. He’s irritable, upset, confused and stressed causing friction between the band. It’s helpless, hopeless, as John falls victim to a new addiction: a new path of destruction to finally tear the boys apart. The most fanciable man on Earth ispregnant.He can’t blame the drink and the drugs forever. But he can run, form a side project all of his own.Set in late 1984, with Live Aid and The Power Station/Arcadia split a dust cloud on the rise.





	1. There’s An All Night Party In Room 7609

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for graphic: language, depictions of sex, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, hallucinations, trauma and violence throughout.

Beautifully calloused, tingling and tormenting fingers trailed slowly down the burning, slick skin of his front man.

The bassist breathed in, shaky, and released it: in a perfect scale of moans.

The singer picked up his speed, dexterous fingers plunging lower, teeth nipping at the elongated column of his throat, tongue swirling, in a rhythm all of their own.

  
Those torturous fingers clasped his sides, skirting down the grooves of his cut hips and shoving the name of it deep into his ear: _my bass god is here and John, he better not be running anywhere before morning._

His bass god groaned in response which screamed: _he’s not, Charlie. He’ll never leave your side._

The kisses were hot, intense, wild and free; sharing moans and saliva as they rocked to their own beat.

Together they groaned, grinding together as the perfect crescendo washed over them: the perfect instrumental section.

***

Bright blue eyes pried themselves open, his huge hands felt around the bed. Nothing. Then, a choked off scream filled the air and Simon bolted upright, calling his name, practically sprinting to the open en suite door.

He glanced down at John, hunched over the toilet seat, his face turned away. He wretched, climbing up into his shaking knees and again emptied the contents of his stomach. Simon’s eyebrows furrowed and within moments he was at John’s back, rubbing his quaking shoulders.

“Johnny, Johnny! I’m here, babe. What the hell happened?”

John took a deep breath and- no, not this time. He slouched back over the toilet bowl heaving, breaths coming up short. He wretched again and muttered: _Charlie_.

“John, what is it John?” Simon asked, trying to hide the panic in his voice. “It’s been three mornings of this, what’s wrong?”

He was met by short breaths and pants, parted lips and - Simon’s heart clenched. It was too late until John realised what he had done: having angled his face up to Simon at his back. His eyes were dimmed red, bloodshot, his cheeks covered in tears. The usual beaming smile forced itself to appear on John’s quivering bottom lip. He cursed under his breath and again, faced the toilet bowl.

“Just some, you know...” He engulfed some air, holding it tight in his throat, “bad coke. I- I took. Ands got some” John again paused, this time to hastily wipe his face, “Columbian shit, Simon, I.. I didn’t. Fuck, it didn’t _agree_ with me.”

Simon’s weary eyes traced John’s hunched form, rubbing circles on the small of his back. With one deft hand he wrapped himself around John’s bed hair, brushing his golden bangs from his face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here, John, I’ll stay.” He ground out.

John, near breathless, cocked his head and was met with a warm and beaming smile from the singer. He tried to match it with one of his own but it lacked conviction that he was truly happy.

“Thanks.” He muttered in a short breath. “Thank you, Charlie.”

At that John felt his stomach finally stop its churning and slowly, cautiously, rose to his feet. Simon helped him, wrapping two hands around his sides and easing him upwards.

Together they stood facing the mirror, Simon’s head resting in the sweat slick skin of where John’s neck met shoulder. John reached behind him and clasped at Simon tighter, bringing his hands to settle around his waist. He cracked a small smile as Simon nuzzled his perfectly cut cheek and let out a small moan as those plush lips caressed his temple.

“I _love_ you.” John breathed, moulding himself into Simon’s grasp.

”I know, I love you too Nigel.” John chuckled at the use of his given name and Simon could feel it.

_Nigel_.

He couldn’t help himself, he brushed John’s bangs from his flushed face and hugged him tighter, his hands enclosing themselves around the bassist’s sweaty ones. Simon bought John’s trembling hands up to his lips and kissed them, feeling John immediately relax into his secure frame and hum his adoration.

***

Filming for the _Arena_ album was almost at an end. It had been a wild ride of countless sessions and hours on their feet. They had travelled the globe, then through Canada and the United States for over a staggering 80/85 concert dates for _Sing Blue Silver._ The Toronto shows had proven manic and pretty much since then John’s calloused fingers had been raw, his bass strings were burning in his hands.

He sighed as an unprecedented wave of nausea washed over him. It was fast, inconsiderate, forcing John to put a hand to his forehead he shut his eyes tight and steadied his breathing. He prayed for the mini bout of hell to quickly end. Out of the corner of his eye John felt scrutinised, he knew he was being watched: growing more tired and over worked. Somehow it was blinking in ruby red lighting that John appeared in a worse state than the others.

The bassist’s blazing red jacket was hanging loose, his shirt had crumpled and was half hanging out of his leather trousers. It appeared that he was gaining weight which he guessed he was thankful for, hoping that the weight was being put on for the right reasons. Knowing himself that his usually hypnotic chocolate brown eyes weren’t as wide and awake as he figured they ought to be didn’t prove too concerning, yet.

The dark circles, the mussed mullet, it all sang of a plea for help. A plea that every band member knew that John himself would never let on.

“Think we got it.” Somebody, probably Russell, called.

John had been snapping more, his patience wearing thin over the most pointless things. It seemed as though the change was audible, running thick between each band member and the heat of it was stifling. It went without saying that the others felt it: Simon having hinted to Nick who too had sensed a change. Simon had cursed, of course he had noticed the change in John, with John stumbling in to catch the tail end of _that_ conversation - demanding that he be filled in, half drunk.

Nigel John Taylor and Nicholas James Bates had been the best of friends since they were thirteen and eleven. Nick knew John better than anyone and, perhaps it never really came clear to John, together Nick and Simon worried endlessly about the bassist and his proclivities.

The cocaine. They’d settled on the cocaine both seemingly not convinced that it was the answer at all. At least, not this time.

John had first been exposed to it sometime in his_ Rum Runner_ days, apparently, the whole thing was a blur now. It didn’t matter anymore as to who, what, where and when but uh, he figured, 1982 was a huge part of it.

A pretty damn good reason as to why he couldn’t recall much touring of 1983.

Together he and Andy had experimented with it several times, John always more thoroughly to ride out the intense high. John had also had a few rounds of ecstasy, valium was next on his literal 'hit' list, at one of his countless parties with one of his countless birds. Or lads. John refused to dwell on it.

Every band member knew he was out of control, falling deeper and deeper into the drinks, balancing himself out with line after line, night after night. How Simon could keep himself by his man truly astounded John sometimes... if he was actually conscious enough to try and think it through. It was the lifestyle, the schedule, the endless travelling and for John, _boredom_. His demise.

It had only been two years of this. All of this. Who knew what, who knew how much John had consumed and how much was flowing through him right now at this very moment. Who knew how much life John still had pulsing through his crippling veins. 

***

The following evening the band stalked off back to their hotel rooms, first stopping off at the bar.

Drinks were poured and laughter was shared. It was a well earned celebration for completing another day of recording and John’s inner turmoil.

“The usual, JT?”

“Do ya even _need_ to ask?!” He barked back, taking in the crooked smile of Andy.

Within moments he returned, two beers in hand.

“Start light, Nigel.”

“You’re the boss Mr Taylor.”

  
“As are ya, _fellow_ Mr Taylor!” They clinked bottles as the rest of the band surrounded them at the table. John downed it.

“Hey, luv!” He beamed, immediately wrapping an arm around Simon.

Simon lips caressed his cheek. They all knew about them, Simon and John, their love and intimacy and although they both couldn’t care as to what the boys thought of them, they still tried to hide themselves from the fans. From the world. Which, of course, was no easy feat.

“When is it coming out again?” Roger asked, before taking a swig.

“November.” Nick replied, in his calm yet booming voice.

"C'mon Rog," the guitarist piped up, nodding to him with his _Fosters_ bottle in hand, "every bloody Duran album seems to come out in November. You should know that by now!"

The beers flowed and the voices were becoming a blur, the alcohol seeming to hit John quick. The bassist pouted, looking down at his leather clad lap and he frowned. Excusing himself he felt his head spin.

He practically ran to the bathroom, barely making it and he was on his knees with his shoulders slumped and cursing anyone and everyone.

“_Fuck_, not again.”

“You’re damn right _not again_. Johnny, baby, this isn’t right. Let’s head back to the room.”

John hadn’t even noticed that Simon had followed him. He clambered to his feet, almost tripping on the tail end of his red jacket as he did so.

“I’m sorry luv, I dunno what’s going on with me.”

“Just get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?” Simon was met with a nod, a small smile from John.

They passed the other members on their way back with John hunched, clutching tight to Simon’s shoulders. His nails bit into the white leather of his jacket but Simon didn’t seem to mind. He held John tighter and he coughed out something about him needing a good rest to the other boys.

“Too much cock if ya ask me!” Andy laughed, his thick northern accent ringing through the air. “He’s bloody _exhausted!_”

“More like nowhere near enough, man.” Roger muttered which earned a hearty bout of laughter from both Nick and Andy. It was always nice to see them on the same page, especially if it involved taunting the bassist in some particular kind of way. Not always verbally.

“Just piss off.” John screeched, half into Simon’s shoulders. “_Wankers_.” At that, all the men stopped laughing. Appraising eyebrows were raised. Even from Nick, behind the eyeliner, his eyes sang of concern and irritation.

"_Nigel_.”

He turned to Nick and immediately the guilt sunk in. “Sorry, I.. I.. uh, I’m _sorry_ Nick.”

“Charlie,” Nick began, “do you want me too—”

“—No Nick, I’ll look after him. You’ve been doing so for far too long.” Simon cracked a small smile.

Together they stumbled, John hauling his weight onto the singer’s broad shoulders. He relaxed a little, limbs turning to jelly, knowing that for sure: with Simon by his side, there wasn’t a chance in hell that John would fall.


	2. You’re So Lonely In Your Nightmare, Let Me In

Back in John’s hotel room Simon deposited John’s heavy body onto the king size bed. He landed with a small grunt on his back, his eyes were heavily lidded as he traced Simon’s lean form.

“Come here.”

Simon grinned, wild, crawling onto the bed to meet him.

“Can we—"

“—Johnny, you know I’d love too but,” John’s whimper cut him off for a moment.

John was looking up at him, a wry smile on his face. Simon could finally survey him: his cheeks had flushed and his skin felt hot to touch. Beads of sweat rolled down John’s forehead and Simon kissed him, a tender touch as John whined for more.

“You’re getting ill.” John opened his mouth ready to protest, “Tomorrow, babe. _Tomorrow_ we can.”

Reluctantly John nodded. He couldn’t really argue with Simon here as he knew that his singer would always have his best interests at heart. He was ill, just ill, that was surely the answer to all of this. It was surely nothing major: tours and recordings always drove them up the wall. Granted his immune system was never really at its best...

“Do you want me to go?” John craned his neck up, searching for the singer as he toyed with John’s boots, the chains on them clinking as they were dropped to the floor.

The bassist didn’t answer immediately. He had already dived into his pocket and felt the familiar weight, the familiar touch of the bag. Of the powder.

“Christ, Johnny.”

“What?” He cocked an eyebrow, pushing himself up to rest against her head board.

“You’re _ill_ John. Just for one night can you please lay off the damn—" Simon had barely stammered out his concerns as he heard a sniff, then another. He groaned as John practically convulsed in his grip. “Fine. _Fuck it_. You’re not doing yourself any favours, mate.”

He didn’t hear John’s reply. Simon was already on his feet, heading towards the door. He didn’t hear John’s protests, asking of him to stay and to hold him. Kiss him. Kiss him deeper. To suck him. To suck him dry.

The door slammed shut and John heaved out a sigh. His eyes fell to the small bag on the bed side table, to the straw and he decided: _why the hell not?_ Cautiously he cut another line, hovering mere inches above it as he took hold of his straw.

Another night of beer swirling and cocaine racing through his veins. Perhaps he was thankful for having a night off of the vodka. Although he wasn’t sure why, he hadn’t a slightest craving for it these past couple of weeks. It was strange, sure, but what seemed worse was the beer. The smell of it, the taste of it. It just wasn’t the same. John was brooding the sudden disinterest, how he had downed the bottle and almost wretched on the spot. Then when he did, he was on his feet and running, something that he never did. He could hold his liquor damn well and for the love of Christ, one bottle of _Budweiser_ wouldn’t be his downfall. He simply wouldn’t allow it.

  
***  
  


John lay helpless, a victim of insomnia. He tossed and turned in the satin sheets, restless. Usually he’d never let Simon just walk away like that. Simon would have fought, be the alpha he knew John needed. But tonight, the fight just wasn’t there. The power and the flame, it was as though Simon just couldn’t ignite it. John was propelling himself further into danger and Simon was powerless, watching from the wings.

The bassist was hitting bum notes, there was a firm detachment in his smile. Simon’s boyfriend was having trouble, not just with the others, musically he just wasn't in the room. Even when his physical presence was met, John was never truly... well, there. There were underlying issues in bed with Simon too. John didn't like to let his mind run with it, wallow in the embarrassment and shame as he repeatedly asked himself: _why would Simon be putting himself through another night of disappointment?_ Simon just couldn’t. John himself knew that Simon was awaiting anxiously for John’s body to respond to his touches, for the coke to let John respond to him.

_Not tonight_, John’s mind whispered. _Tomorrow_, it sang but, maybe John didn’t or maybe John did, on some level they were both well aware that John would be fighting to make it through another day: too highly strung.

Eventually, John forced himself into a slumber, dreaming only of riding the sensation he willed himself to believe that he and Simon still could.

***

Another week had passed and finally, finally they managed to have some time to themselves. Each band member stayed away from the studio, with Roger and Andy rocking out in the room one night, leaving Nick so he could call his girl and stay on the phone for hours.

Simon and John lay sweaty, panting, the singer’s hardness brushing up against the bassist’s cut hip.

“_Again_, seriously?” John chuckled, glancing down at the sly look that painted Simon’s face.

“How’s about it, huh?” He winked, as he scrambled above John, his lips hovering mere inches from John’s parted ones.

"Randy bastard!"

He craned his neck and shook his bangs out of his face, letting his piercing brown eyes focus on Simon’s striking blues. And then they were kissing, mouths moulding hot and heavy as saliva was shared and moans were dropped.

“_Please_, Simon.” It came out near breathless.

With that Simon roughly ground their hips together, itching to get closer, for John to feel his presence all around him. John was determined to keep going, to keep himself alive and pumping. Without a breath, Simon’s hand had plummeted to grip hold of John’s semi and was slowly trying to revive him.

“How are you feeling today, baby?”

He was met by a breathless ‘what?’ as John’s head lolled back into the pillows.

John hadn’t spoken much about his health. He hated, with a passion, when anyone dared to call him up on it. The dizzy spells, the mood swings. It all seemed to be typical John, somehow, not that John really wanted anyone to admit it to his face.

“You, John. You sweet little idiot Taylor, you.” Simon chuckled, half heartedly.

“Fine..” A moan was ripped from John’s throat as his member pulsed in Simon’s grasp. “F-_fuck_, yeah.”

Simon wasn’t convinced. He let go of John and rolled off of him, ignoring the whine that the lack of contact had caused.

John rose up onto his forearms, eyes searching for the warmth in those beady blues. He only saw the cold that had frosted over them. Without breaking eye-contact, John’s arm shot south and clasped around himself, tugging with a light touch. His lips were parted and his breaths were coming short and quick.

It was then he realised why Simon had turned away. _Not again_, he thought. _Not tonight,_ he had hoped.

Reluctantly he let his near flaccid self go and bought both hands to rest on his bare chest. They lay in silence, John thinking he could almost hear the pulsing of Simon’s cock instead of his heartbeat. Without word he watched as for what was now the third night in a row after the odd night here and there of the same fashion: Simon had simply risen and was fumbling about with his leathers.

Within moments he was headed for the door, glassy eyes fixating themselves on the dresser. On the white powder that littered it. How could he have missed it on is way in?

“You’re going to kill yourself with that one day.” He muttered, not even sure he had been heard. The door didn’t slam but it wasn’t exactly closed either.

“Wanker.” John groaned to himself, his rush beginning to wear off.

After unceremoniously flipping off the now locked door he clambered over to his dresser, to his reflection in the mirror. His irises were wide, his hair was ruffled. He felt the sudden craving for a cigarette and pawed deep into the drawer. He was faced with two beauties: the nicotine and the cocaine, staring at him in the face, laughing and beckoning him to them.

  
“_Hold Back The Rain_, huh?” He scoffed.

Wordlessly, he lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. Letting it go he moaned, head lolling back and a sudden wave of relief crashed over him. The cocaine could wait a few more minutes.


	3. Some New Romantic Looking For The TV Sound

The following night the group met. They crammed themselves into Nick’s room with two of the three Taylors taking up his king size bed. Nick himself was in the bathroom, evening up his eyeliner. John was sure he could do so in his sleep and was quite surprised to see his best friend even using the mirror at all, he was a pro at this.

“Nigel, what are you starin’ at?” Nick called to him over his shoulder.

John stood in the doorway to the connected bathroom, leaning heavily against the frame. He had to duck his head as, of course, he would’ve hit it if he employed his full height. He took the two strides over to the keyboardist and stood behind him, both men staring at themselves in the mirror.

“Nigel?”

“Remember when we used to do this? You teachin’ me how to ‘ply that stuff?” He grinned, reaching for the wayward eye pencil before it rolled off of the sink.

“Yeah,” Nick smiled, “yeah, I do. The mascara too. You’d always nearly poke your eyes out with that.”

"My good for nothin’ eyes, yes."

John chuckled, clutching at his stomach which he could’ve sworn just flipped. He shrugged it off and steadied himself, clasping a huge hand on Nick’s shoulder. Together they stood as John traced the outer corner of his eyes, taking the deep breath he now knew helped to steady his hand to apply the colour. He had traced a lovely line before turning to Nick who rolled his darkened gaze and snatched the kohl pencil from him.

“Hold still now.”

John ducked his head down but kept his eyes averted as the kohl bought out the best in his already striking gaze.

“Blush, for old time sake?” Nick sniggered, handing it to John who had miraculously produced a brush from nowhere.

“What kinda new romantic would I be if I declined?”

“A gay man failing to be a new romantic in 1984, Johnny.”

He winked. “Fuck off.” Nick just rolled his green eyes. “Still a bunch of, you know, uh... _fairies_ huh?”

“I guess that came true. For one of us. I wonder which one?” Nick bought a hand up to his chin and schooled his beautiful face into a quizzical, teasing expression.

John was virtually cackling, feeling both victimised and adored all at the same time.

“Oh Nicholas, where would I be without’cha?”

“Probably best I don’t answer that Johnny.” He winked, as he removed himself from John’s embrace and headed back into the crowd.

“Christ, where would _I_ be?” John asked no one in particular, staring down his newly made-up figure in the huge hotel en-suite mirror. He glanced down at Nick’s abandoned make-up stash knowing it had to be here somewhere - his once beloved lip gloss. Nick was bound to have kept it, for sentimentality if anything, he was just that kind of a guy. Nick was the light John needed in his life.

He couldn’t suppress the grin when he found the shade he so desired.

“Some things don’t change, huh?”

He startled, over-lining his bottom lip with the dusty pink. John pivoted to see Andy’s bemused and what appeared to be slightly intoxicated guise.

“Nope, guess not.” John answered for himself.

“Fuckin' fag.” Andy laughed and John, goddamnit, just had to join in. “Lemme get that cack for you.”

John’s brows furrowed in confusion for a second until he realised that Andy was searching through Nick’s stash for a wipe or makeup remover. Something. If Andy had learnt anything from Nick since ‘79, he would fetch John a cotton bud or the makeup guru for a quick fix himself.

John took the cotton bud and raised it to his lips. “Thanks, man.”

He noticed that Andy was still staring, intently. It didn’t unnerve him as such but he couldn’t help feel a little self conscious. He knew where Andy was looking and it wasn’t at the pink tinge of his soft lips. It was fixed on his face, the newfound puffiness in his cheeks that the blush must have highlighted rather than have concealed.

Always one to just say it as it is, Andy began “so, why ya ‘ere and not out in the arms of 'im?”

_Him. Simon. _

John just shrugged, ruffling then smoothing out the gell in his hair.

“You guys have a fight or sommet? You ain’t snogged him senseless in a while and ya barely talk now, it feels weird not _gagging_ every-time we see your tongues meet.” His tone was light, John forced a smile that didn’t stretch itself very far.

“Honestly I, I don’t know. Nothin’ feels..” He paused, turning back to the mirror. His head felt heavy, spinning, his knees wanted to buckle and let his suddenly clammy body fall to the floor. “Andy, I- Christ, I look _awful_, don't I?

There was an excruciating pause, John inwardly cursing himself for having been so vague. The guitarist must've been clueless as to what John meant. It was more than simply the weight gain, the rumpled and greasy hair, the cut throat jawline that wasn't so cut throat anymore.

He tried to steady himself and dismiss his train of thought, clutching tight to the sink. Andy’s hands were already around him.

“Let’s head back to my room, John. We need to talk.”

_John? What happened to Johnny, JT, Tigger, man?!_

This wasn't right. Andy never addressed him, could he even say, _properly?_ More often than not that thing wouldn't be a bother but, there was just something about the guitarist and his delivery. The sincerity in which his words had dropped, the firm gaze that roamed all over John as he had said it. The bassist gulped, breaking eye-contact momentarily, determined to engulf a breath and... not throw up in fear of what Andy had to say.

John cursed, feeling his stomach do another flip. There was just something in the air, he supposed, something dark and dreary was about to wash over them. 

Nodding to the guitarist, _the crazy axe man himself,_ John finally tore himself away from the sink. He caught Simon’s gaze on the way out and couldn’t tell whether he had smiled or grimaced at the, if anything, slightly nostalgic look. Minus the flaming red hair John once flaunted with pride. Andy was shepherding him out of the door, grabby hands at his sides, but it didn’t stop him eyeing Simon a final time before the door slammed behind them.

***  
  


Moments later they were laying on Andy’s bed with John on his back and his hands behind his head. Andy looked down to him and John could see it. A difference, a change. It was coming, coming faster than he could say ‘Rum Runner.’

“I don’t know how much more of this I can do, mate.”

There was a pause, a run of a nervous tongue over a bottom lip. “Whatd’ya mean? Is it somethin’ with Tracey?”

Andy, impossibly, looked guilty. John had never seen such a look.

“Have you, you know, got any—" before John could finish his sentence Andy pushed a small bag into his hands and John’s tired eyes suddenly perked up at the familiar exhilaration staring him in the face.

Together they snorted a couple lines and then, the words were pouring out faster than either Taylor could handle.

Andy associated the situation as John didn’t feel the same, he was restless, his boredom was taking its toll. John, on the other hand, could see that Andy felt boxed in, his creativity was having to take a back seat.

“We need a fuckin’ _break_. From... this bollocks.” John stated, fumbling around in his pockets for a cigarette. “And soon.”

Andy barked out a laugh. “Yeah we do. I’m a _guitar_ player, let me fuckin' play me riffs and shit! Gimme tha bloody mic!"

John knew exactly what he was referring too. He too felt that sometimes, more often than not, the guitarists in the group were buried too deep behind the synths and the vocals: to put it _nicely_. They were New Romantics sure but, that was 1981. Times and the music scene were changing.

“Like a... a friggin', oh I dunno, power station, man!” Andy stated as John took another drag.

Somehow by 5am, when Andy’s head hit the pillow and he was pretty much dead to the world, they had decided on a side project. It would take place far from London, from the others and finally, _finally_ they could rock out. Have a change, expand and explore. They wouldn’t have to sit dumbfounded and try to decode every Le Bon diatribe or be confused and even a little repulsed by Rhodes' most avant guard looks and ideas. Sure they loved what they had achieved so far and Christ, neither could forget the rush that the past five years had given them but... well, things had to change. For everyone’s sanity.

Perhaps Roger would even be down for the project also. A Taylor Threesome - in an interesting, _musical_ light. John had all night and the following morning to ponder his next move: getting away and starting afresh.

***

The headaches, the tiredness and the nausea had grown so frequent that, after Nick’s endless pleas, John finally agreed to go to a doctor. A doctor who was low-key, who would keep any and all rock-star diagnosis mute from the press. Or, one who take the bribe and keep his big gob shut.

John took in his words, he was mostly sober and coherent by this point. They flung about his head, merciless, the sounds echoing off of the walls as though his piercing bass notes were knocking about his aching brain. The tempo increased, the percussion reaching crescendo when finally it hit him; hit home.

He was _pregnant_. Carrying a rock-star’s child. As a superstar himself at the peak of his career, aged only twenty-four.

He screamed his throat raw.


	4. Try To Remember Again And Again, What It Is That I Recognise

Near as soon as the band had landed back at Heathrow, John was on the road. Cursing, he was caught in a huge backlog on the good ole M42 which added an extra forty-five minutes back to Birmingham. Back to Hollywood, to John’s Catholic parents and to his childhood bedroom which he hadn’t shown his face in, in near a year. He couldn’t stand the lonesome nights in his London flat in his current, perplexed state. It was out of the question, he thought that he shouldn’t be alone to be tormented by his running thoughts.

At least back with Jack and Eugene Taylor (_his_ Jean Taylor, it had been years and he still couldn't believe she and Roger's mother shared the same damn name!) he may be able to get some peace but he was content that he wouldn’t be wasting his nights deeply submerged into his conflicted subconscious.

Nick and Roger had hugged him goodbye, he’d received a clap on the shoulder and a wink from Andy that went unnoticed by all others but spoke volumes of promise and excitement to him. However Simon had just turned away, suitcases in hand. He had uttered something about making it quick, _the press, the fans_... and all that jazz. John kept up appearances, yelling bye to him as Simon too did the same, pivoting on his heel to face the bassist for a tenth of a second.

John strut straight through the arrivals gate barely keeping the bile in his throat at bay.

The entire drive down he contemplated back and fourth and back and fourth whether or not to tell his parents. To tell them about Simon, the doctor, how it appeared that the band was hanging by a mere thread. How he had felt that he was the instigator of it all. That and he knew, the front man thought the same.

He slammed his brakes, his slick black and red pinstripe Volvo screeching as he bought her to an anything but graceful halt. John was thankful that for once he wasn’t returning in the dead of night to awaken Simon Road - _he’s back. The rockstar has returned, be thankful for this gracious return as he put you on the map, motherfuckers. _He wasn’t so thankful to be returning to his bastard neighbours that still grated on his last nerve.

The last time John had been to Simon Road - _huh, Simon, well isn’t that a trick of fate?, _John’s mind scoffed- was Christmas ’83. It had been memorable for his parents and indeed himself. He had walked into his front room and their beaming faces before being led to four gigantic sacks of fan mail, letters, interviews, requests and underwear. Always the most erotic underwear, lacy stuff mainly, worn and disgraced.

  
_Was that shit meant to be appealing?_

He momentarily eyed the sacks in his garage and within moments, in a blind fit of rage, he was tearing through them, yelling, sweating, tossing all the love for _Duran Duran_ and the _most fanciable male _on the planetout and shoving it in his mother’s horrified face. Within hours he was back on a plane with a cocktail in hand, cigarette in the other.

He told himself that this time, November 1984, that couldn’t happen. He was here and was here to stay. It was his home after all, right?

***

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment that was sure to possess his mother’s face and bring down the surprisingly easy mood. John was thankful that the events of last Christmas went unspoken.

Bar. Bar sounded good. Roger. Roger sounded like _perfection_. But he can’t go to the bar, he shouldn’t be drinking. On some strange and absurd level, John had convinced himself to try and remain sober through July, in which he was due. The start of July 1985. Christ, that was forever away and a man like John was living for his nights, his wild rides, the rush and the thrill.

It was only _nine_ months. He could do this. The drugs on the other hand, he wasn’t so convinced.

Roger, he was reminded, sounded like the absolute way to go. Gloucester wasn’t a million miles away; they could meet in the middle. He plonked himself down on his worn in sofa, telephone in hand. Wrapping his long fingers around the cord, he awaited the familiar soothing voice of his drummer to knock some sense into him. As always.

***

Gloucester was only an hour from Birmingham on a good day. They’d arranged to meet at what was now Roger’s local pub.

  
_Miles away from nowhere, indeed. Does Rog really like it here?_

Roger took a single glance at John, the bass to his beat, waving him over. John’s walk was slow and unsure, miles away from the self assured strut Roger had come to know and love. It took perhaps five minutes for Roger to call him on his bullshit.

Their so-called 'Taylor telepathy' was acting up again, on reflex all of its own. It was bound to be their downfall.

“_Budweiser? _Or are you heading straight to the heavy stuff?”

John hesitated before stammering out something vaguely resembling ‘no thanks, I’d rather just watch you.’ Roger just cocked an eyebrow. 

“John, man, what’s wrong? You’d never refuse a drink, especially with me.”

“I know, I’m just... I, I’m a little under the weather I s’pose.”

“Again?”

John nodded, sagely. He fumbled for the cigarettes he knew were burning an aching hole in his inner jacket pocket.

“Johnny, tell me, why am I here?”

“It’s been too long, Rog.” He barked, grin forced and fake.

Roger smiled his full and beautiful smile, eyeing John with a sideways glance.

“_John_.” He insisted.

"Oh, blow me."

They talked about well, pretty much everything. From their time together in the _Rum Runner_: working as waiters and failing miserably at making cocktails to all the late night jamming sessions together; just percussion, trying to hammer out track after track. The band’s success, the tours, some backstage shenanigans and then there was a lull. They both purposefully seemed to have agreed to avoid the last year. A break from touring, having a film soundtrack pitched to them and then fallen through, _Arena_… nothing.

John couldn’t be mad, it was impossible. Roger was the most humble and down to earth man he had ever had the fortune of meeting. If there was anyone he could reveal his innermost secret with, who he wasn’t completely terrified of letting down as he was with Nick, it would be Roger. His rock. His rock between multiple incredibly hard places.

He swallowed his pride, focused his chocolate brown eyes on Roger’s own and let out the words in a quivering, barely audible breath.

“I’m _pregnant_.”

Roger dropped his cigarette into his pint.

His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open. John had never felt more ashamed, his cheeks aflame and he stared down at his leather-clad lap. Roger knew there was nothing of any interest down there.

“John, are you—”

“—Yeah, Rog.” He let out a hiss, then a rueful chuckle. “It’s _true_.”

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity until Roger stated that he needed another drink: anything to try and understand this. Returning with a second pint and determined to keep his second cigarette alight, Roger sat back down and looked at John as he bit his bottom lip, kept his eyes down and hands fumbling in his lap.

“Johnny, I." He hesitated, taking in a breath, “how long have you known?”

“Only a week.”

“How far along are you?”

John raised his eyes, bringing his hand to his lips to bite a cuticle: the ultimate tell that he was nervous. “Just... under a month.”

“A _month?!_”

Within moments, Roger was perfectly calm. He radiated warmth and re-assurance. He asked whether it was Simon’s in which John’s face momentarily blanked. Then, without warning, John burst into stomach churning tears. Roger had never seen such an awful sight. He had cried in front of John before and sure, _Sing Blue Silver_ had wreaked havoc on them both so the breakdowns had become more scripted than before, John had emptied his soul to him too but this, he had no context for this.

Burying his flushed face in his hands, John cursed the hormones that he was sure were next to nothing yet.  
  


“It all makes sense now,” the drummer’s voice was smaller than usual, dark eyes fixed onto John.

John took a shaky drag of his cigarette, coughing as the nicotine burned his throat.

“W-What does, man?” It was a mere whisper.

Roger licked his lips, bringing both hands to rest atop of the table. “You and Simon… the fights, the distancing. Wow.”

It seemed to hit them both like a freight train. He was _pregnant_. A new life was growing, he was bringing new life into the world. John had his own rocker son or daughter on the way.

They both repeated it like a mantra, desperate to let something sink in and to understand any of it.

“Does he know?” The forbidden question.

John’s teary eyes said it all.

“He doesn’t.” Roger confirmed. “Don’t you want him too?”

“I don’t... I” He paused, looked up to the ceiling and engulfed a huge and shaky breath, choking out a sob, “I... _help_.”

“John, what can I—”

“—Just _help_ me!”

Roger shot an arm forward, enclosing his nimble fingers around the bassist’s clammy ones.

“I need... need too” he sobbed, full of shame, “Rog, fuck it, I, I... need to get away from ‘ere!”

John gulped, thick. He hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks, not that they stopped forming.

“And go _where_, John?”

  
His eyes darted upwards, mouth moving fast.

“John, please don’t hate me for this but, Christ, do you,” Roger stuttered as John gripped onto him tighter and tighter, “do you...” he paused, biting into his bottom lip.

“Rog?”

With a gulp, Roger continued. “Do you even _want_ this baby? Can you honestly see yourself taking on such a responsibility? I mean, are you ready to give it all up to put them first and can you even begin to understand just how different everything will—”

The words rolled off of his tongue with such a conviction that he scared them both by how badly he wanted this, the drummer's words were fizzling out.

“_Yes_.” He took another drag, eyes widening as he began to register his own outburst, “_Yes _I fuckin' well do, there’s _nothing_ I could want more.”

Roger was momentarily stunned.

  
  
Biting his bottom lip, “you’ve never wanted kids.”

  
“Yeah but uh,” John coughed, gaze fleeting back to something behind Roger, “I didn’t... _didn’t_ have one.”

“John, are you sure that—” The drummer cut himself off, dismissing the thought with a shake of his head.

“Now I’m, you know, gonna _have_ one.” He almost choked on his words, waters threatening to burst their banks again.

John could tell by the look, the widened eyes, that Roger’s mind was racing a mile a minute: full of doubt.

“I’m gonna have one.” He repeated, in a breath.

"John, I, I don't... don't quite think that I can..." The drummer stumbled.

Then a huge, beaming grin swept his beautiful face and his eyes sparkled with it. A newfound wave of determination writ across the bassist's face. He was beaming with it, gaze stern.

“I’m gonna _have_ one, Rog.”

There was a huge, shaky gulf of breath. Then, a painful exhale. “I’m with you all the way, Johnny, if you want me to be.”

“I want you, Rog, of course I do. I, fuck, I sound so damn needy. And it, it’s all uh—”

Roger but in, hand now massaging John’s knuckles, “you think it’s _pathetic_ don’t you? Feeling this way? Crying about it.”

John shook his head, the remnants of what was his mish mash of blondey-brown fringe falling into his eyes.

“Don’t, John. You have every right to be. It’s okay to be vulnerable and cry.”

Roger's words truly stunned him. However, as the conversation paved way for more familiar and easy territory again; it began to sink in to the bassist that he was right. Of course Roger was right to worry, to try and fight him on it. It went without saying that John wasn't the most reliable of people, his flaky streak was more than just concerning. The more that they spoke, the further the conviction and self-assuredness John's vocal seemed to carry. He felt a gigantic tidal wave of relief crash over him, finally being able to let even a snippet of his worries break free into the open. Just to have Roger listen, he was an excellent listener, and not judge... John couldn't even begin to understand how much that reassuring shoulder to cry on really meant to him. How precious the percussionist really was.

Emotions were at a high, milking the bassist dry. He agreed to spend the night with Roger and his new bride Giovanna. They had plenty more to discuss.

He wasn’t a hundred percent on his little side project, no, his _other_ little side project as such yet but with Roger’s support he hoped, _prayed_, that at least one of those would turn out okay. The one involving his fingers plucking at his bass strings until they bled. That one was bound to bring him some happiness, some familiarity.


	5. Let’s Turn Up The Heat Till We Fry

The non drinking, non smoking Bass God stint lasted a mere three weeks but John had his reasons: he had to keep up appearances. All the high class parties, the women flocking to his table, the top ups, the high pitched giggles and the bleach blonde highlights were a sea of chaos. The endless men that caught his wandering eyes. 

  
His _morning sickness,_ now that he knew the term, was still severe. He didn’t pick anyone up nor attempt to steal anybody’s significant other. John couldn’t let himself be lured in by the endless tempters, it was his new number one rule that was far too flimsy to remain concrete and standing. John couldn’t bear the thought, his latest conquest awaking to see him in his state, a starlet or model, as he lay panting and dishevelled with loose limbs in a heap on the floor. By the toilet, naked and sprawled out. All the sweat.

The press were on his case enough about his next bird though, never mind his next lad.

Finding solace in his stark white, slick bass guitar; many of the nights that had once been in the grasp of his beloved singer now consisted of a single, melancholy strum of _Planet Earth_, a muted _Rio_ who John was sure he was no longer dancing on the sand with, _Like The Wolf_ inside him was no longer _Hungry_ and whatever the hell _Reflexes_ he may or may not have been able to hold back.

John avoided _Hold Back The Rain_ at all costs.

He lay curled up in a crunched ball, all six feet and one inch of him cramped into his childhood bed. John couldn’t lie to himself, he’d debated back and fourth on calling Simon, setting up a time and place to just _listen_. To immerse himself in the mythical poetry, letting himself get lost in the mystical vocals.

  
_Everytime I phone ya, you’re not home._

He craved the hot and tender touches that ignited flames of blue and silver, singing across his heated skin.

  
_We’ve got to stay in touch, Simon, on the telephone._

Before he knew it, his thoughts had wandered far enough that so had his digits. Creeping lower, deeper, he caressed the newfound stretches of skin and sore nipples. His dexterous fingers plunged further south to his aching member which pulsed mercilessly in his light touch. He didn’t even have to do much, already fisting at himself as the images grew clear and wild. Wild and tormenting.

_A beautifully tanned body blanketing his own pale and slender form, the mixture of sweat and saliva, the gentle rocking of hips turning ruthless, animalistic. A perfect scale of moans to accompany the perfect bassline._

His pants became louder, his head lolling back into his pillows. The quivering of his perfectly plush bottom lip turned bloody as he bit it. His moans, deep and guttural, were torn from him as his pulse raged from adagio to andante, to allegro to vivace. Then, his violent crescendo left him speechless, basking in the slick that coated his quivering fingers.

“_Simon._” He choked out, with a lustful groan.

***

It was perhaps one of the hardest things he’d ever had to reveal.

John had recited the words over and over, mentally preparing himself for the loss that would burn in Simon’s baby blue eyes and for the dismay to caress Nick’s ruby painted lips. He still wasn’t sure where Roger stood but having known him long enough, John was well aware that the split had to be hard on him. Roger didn’t have a clear side, he’d never side. It just wasn’t a part of the drummer’s easy going yet democratic and stubborn nature. He was loyal to John and to the rest of the band: always had been and, John prayed, hopefully always would be.

But for now he had Andy. Plus a one way ticket to New York.

The revelation hadn’t ran smoothly. A band meeting was called with John stumbling out the details: sharing the spotlight; the creative indifference and an aching to explore and expand… as a _musician_.

He couldn’t look Simon in the eye throughout the entire confession. He clutched tight to his flowing, oversized black coat; being sure to keep it firmly wrapped around him at all times.

As his Volvo screeched out of the car park he ran the screaming match through his mind, desperately trying to rewind to the moment John’s bombshell had hit them, to seemingly no avail. His mind was too cloudy, he couldn't see where one Duran ended and where another began. Whatever happened, from here on out, the Fab Five would never be the same as the dynamic had skewed to run at its own tempo. Did he feel guilty? Absolutely. But could he be the only soul to blame? Absolutely not.

It would only be _one_ single anyway, that was the idea. This wasn’t a goodbye but as the December flurries beat down on him and he trudged his way back up the drive, already packed, John was itching to be whisked away for a hell of a long time.

_Nine months sounded rather appealing._

To whisk he and Andy away. John, Andy and John’s _baby_ away. 

_As does a year._

His stomach churned, he grinned wide with excitement. This was it, his moment.   
  


John had a final doctors appointment in Birmingham. He stammered out a plea that Roger go with him, as blood was to be taken and vitals were to be checked. Not that John would admit it out loud but he still had a slight needle phobia. It was either that or he just craved the reassurance that he was still doing the right thing.

Roger’s hand resting atop of his as another tube was filled told him everything he needed to know.

***

Recording for _The Power Station_ had so far ran alarmingly well. The supergroup had smashed track after track; the Taylor boys having perfectly gelled with Robert and Tony.

  
They had freaking _Bernard Edwards_ working with them, producing the track. John was practically creaming himself over the thought.

Although John had been so hopeful, he hung to Roger’s every word and couldn’t help but stifle the tears that were already forming incase he was rejected. He cursed his raging hormones.

“_Yes_.”

Happy tears fell. John leapt into the air, almost decking Andy as he crashed through the door.

“He in?” Andy whispered.

“Yes? _Froggie Barnacle_, y-you mean it, you’ll..”

Neither of the three Taylors could hide their excitement.

“Call me that again and I’ll bail out right now.” Roger joked, poorly conveying any real sense of irritation.

John gave Andy the brightest smile and an energetic thumbs up who, in turn, pumped his fist into the air with a kinetic energy far surpassing John’s own.

Roger would be able to record with them after New Years, he was adamant to spend Christmas with Giovanna. Just the thought of at least one out of the three Taylors having a perfect family Christmas made John’s heart clench. He made himself a mental note - _call mother and let her know how well this is going._

“Three Taylors are far better than two, Rog, ya know.”

The line began to fade. John just about heard: “Still _cocky_, aren’t we Johnny?”

John was beaming, the notion of the Taylor reunion running wild through his veins.

Roger heard him exhale. “Go easy on the cigs, mate.”

He took a final drag of his cigarette.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wanker.” Roger scoffed as John chuckled.

“That too.”

John put the phone down then strutted on down to the recording studio. He had a glimmer of hope, the reassurance that this split was going to work: they had a purpose.

Roger would surely make the record, even if he’d only agreed to make John happy. Plus the all round _Concorde_ flight as promised. It would be worth it. Roger was the final piece, the _desired_ piece to John’s already near complete puzzle.  
  


***

The festive air was still fresh as he bid farewell to 1984. John took a moment to reflect then forced it out of his memory. A man like John always looked forward, anxiously awaiting the thrill. He couldn’t bear to glance back and disappoint himself.

_The Power Station_ had been three years in the making, when he actually stopped to think about it. A mere want then a craving, a temptation and _finally_ his dream was coming to fruition. He had hinted to Robert about it way back in late'82/early '83 but their schedules had never paved the way. Then, a thought about recording multiple tracks passed its way through John's mind, thoroughly throwing him for a loop. _Session singer each hit? Can we afford another eight artists?_

He had power, they all did. It was about time he could call the shots without worrying about his image; exotic locations and sharing the spotlight five ways.

He’d be sharing it _four_ which, he honestly couldn’t be more excited to do so.

“It’s bloody great, man!” Andy clapped his shoulder as John leant forward, hovering over the sound deck. “Blast it!”

“All the way?” John winked, already sure of the answer.

“All the fuckin’ way.”

The guitars roared, the vocals slick and pristine. The bass, damn, the bassline could seduce any listener with it’s thumping beat penetrating deep: leaving it’s mark.

“Told you it was a good call.”

“No, Johnny, you didn’t _tell _me. You’ve been on about this since ’82. Always got a hard on for_ T-Rex_, huh?” Never the suave one, Andy waggled his eyebrows and neither man could suppress a grin.

Together they sat, John’s feet propped up on the deck, beers in hand and cigarette smoke filling the air. John felt choked, a strange wave of nausea hitting him right out of left field. He took in breath after breath, wavering, to steady himself.

Andy cocked an eyebrow as he rose from his seat, yanking the bottle from John’s clammy touch as though he feared John would drop it or throw it without warning.

“John.” He croaked out after taking a drag, “The hell is this? You’ve been stalkin' about, lookin’ like you’re about to fall flat on that pretty face for weeks now. What’s wrong?”

John kept his eyes down, his lips were parted and moving but he couldn’t form any sound. If he did, it was surely a frustrated groan but he wasn’t angry.

“Just some... you know, uh, bad coke.” Turns out his reflexes weren’t completely _attacked_, nor was he somewhat paralysed, he was already fumbling in his pockets for his little bag of powdered revival.

“_Bullshit_.”

John fished out the bag and set it atop of the table in front of him, hands already jerking in anticipation. Next came the straw. He nodded to Andy who readily declined, with a raised eyebrow and a pout.

_Blimey, more for this Taylor then._

“John? Ya can’t avoid whatever this is forever, man. Don’t run.”

The worry in Andy’s voice, _or was it sympathy?_, was a complete foreign concept to him and judging by Andy’s hasty delivery, the concern was new to him too.

John dodged the question, repeatedly. Something he was well and truly great at: a key example of what he had learned; how to manipulate and manage his own self in this business. He barked back line after line, stalling for a smoke, before finally he upped to meet Andy on the sofa. He let slip a small moan as his suddenly heavy body sank into the plush leather. If they were to really do this, it would be on John's terms and John's terms only.

Only Andy wasn't the negotiator, the instigator. He was fighting on John's side, right?

“For Christ’s sake, _Tigger_.”

“... You haven’t called me _that_ Ands, in a real long-ass time.” John stated, a touch of nostalgia in his voice as he chopped another fine white line.

They weren’t arguing but the raise in both voices was unmistakable. Just two friends hashing it out but John was done. He wouldn’t fight. He never had been much of a fighter: hiding his fear behind thick rimmed glasses or not; it was immature and Andy could clearly knock him out within three punches, or more likely, maybe only with one.

“John, for the last freakin’ time, please just tell us what the fuck is—”

_Andy probably wouldn’t even notice._ John could be hobbling around approaching eight months, the sight of his feet long forgotten and perhaps only _then_ Andy would recognise something was amiss.

  
To hell with it. He was done with his game. The cocaine soared through his veins yet John felt anything but a high. It was time to crash.

“—I’m pregnant, man.”

John snorted the second line.

“Due in, uh” His head jerked, bringing a hand to hastily rub his nose, “J-_July_.”

The thick vapour swirled without mercy around John’s queasy form, threatening to choke him. Threatening to pull him from the sofa and throw him into the wall: so the smoke could forcefully bang every vulnerability out from his conflicted mind.

“Sweet. Fuckin’. _Christ_.” Andy downed the bottle in one. “Bloody hell.” His voice died off as he chuckled, content on understanding.

John felt sick. He was ready to void his guts and, knowing Andy that the mere prospect of him throwing up would just encourage him to laugh harder, he fought with determination to steady his stomach. He threw his head back, hitting the wall to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. John hissed as the light caught his tired eyes before plonking his deft hand up in front of them.

_Not now._

It was far too late until he realised. The tears were rolling down his cheeks, his chest was rising and falling with uneven heaves.

_Oh, you motherfucker!_

Andy was staring at him, intently, as though he wanted to hug him. Wordlessly, John flung his huge body into Andy’s short but supportive and open frame. It wasn’t the first time in the six years they’d spent together that he had broken down in Andy’s arms. However this time it was different, a whole new rush of intense emotion. All of John’s walls and guards were stripped down and he cried, shameful, into the chains on the pint sized guitarist's leather coated shoulder.

“It’s... it’s okay, I’m here. Johnny, just... just, yeah. Let it out, I've got ya.”

Andy just held him. For once his common sense prevailed by hushing John and clutching at him tighter. It was incredibly uncharacteristic for the both of them but for John, Andy decided, he’d be there. He was here with him now, far from any of the more open support he knew John deserved. Far from Nick and Roger. Far from, well, the man Andy was adamant in his mind, who _should_ be here consoling John. The man who should be smoothing the damp hair that had fallen into his eyes and brushing his perfectly plush lips over the wayward tear tracks.

John was thankful he didn’t ask. It went unspoken between the two that John was keeping Simon in the dark. The reasons for John to scuttle off to New York and form all these crazy connections were endless and had seemed a little rushed at first but finally, _finally_ it was all starting to sink in to the guitarist.

“Hey, hey _Tigger_.” He began, voice hovering above a whisper.

“Fuck, I.. I ugh.” John couldn’t look him in the eye, the fear of having disappointed and appalled him pulsing through John’s drug craving veins. “I’ve never bloody cried.. so damn much.. Ands, I’m _sorry_.”

His breath was caught in his throat as John felt a calloused, string beaten hand land on his chin and angle his head upwards. Their eyes met: _sorry for what, you loveable, bumbling idiot?_

“For gettin’ that ass of yours knocked up? You should be apologisin’ to Charlie’s cheque book.” Andy winked and John’s lips quirked, a smile tugging at them.

Within moments, the air had cleared, the smoke seemed anything but stale. John could breathe again.

“Do Robert and Tony know?”

John shook his head.

“Dont’cha want to tell ’em, JT?”

He hesitated. “Eventually... yeah, if anythin' they’ll see the bloody _bump_ and be on me non-stop, you know?” He laughed, the interrogation scene being pieced together in his mind.

“Alright, man.” The thick northern accent hang in the air. “Whenever _you’re_ ready. I’ll be waitin’.”

John smiled broadly, baring his adorable over bite and momentarily threw his head back as his laughter flowed free. He could stop hiding the weight, shoving his much too long for his liking fringe into his face to cover the not so newfound lack of glass-slicing cheekbones. He didn’t have to excuse the tiresome eyes; the odd refusal of a drink.

It was _Andy_ for Christ’s sake. He could never not love him. He just prayed to the divinity he was sure would turn him away at heavens door, that Andy kept quiet. He was a self proclaimed blabber mouth and John had once had his doubts but the moment he took in those pale eyes, the bassist could see them speaking volumes to him. Andy would be keeping this secret and he’d give John no reason not to trust him.

“Wanna spin it again?”

John was already halfway to the sound deck. He took his seat and jacked up the volume entirely: the two men banging their heads to _Get It On _and its booming drumbeat.

“_Murderess_ is next, I can feel it in my bones, Ands.” _In my stomach?_

“Whatever ya say, _boss_.” He stretched out the final syllable, provoking a laugh from John. A laugh he hadn’t graced the world with in a long time before just moments ago - long and hearty.

John had already spilled his guts anyway. There was no turning back now. Besides, he had a record to finish; a reputation to uphold. He had a bass that he longed to touch.


	6. Your Telephone's Been Ringing, While You’re Dancing In The Rain

Chains clinked, heads throbbed, pulses ran hotter as the lights went down. Metal clashed, restraints latched tight. The drums pounded and the synths screamed, penetrating deep into his disturbed soul. Into a dangerous, perverse and homoerotic corruption:_ reckless and so hungered_.

The water filled his ears, also, drowning every last feeling to a numbness so foreign and frightening as he saw it: the wheel, the body. Bound, tightly wound. The victim was plunged into the murky black, held hostage to the vile crashing of the roaring waves.

The screams of pure horror, the gasps of disbelief. The sounds raw, sneaking up on him, cornering him, signalling him out as _helpless_, _useless_. The shame pounced, pounced like a tiger.

His subconscious weld him to the _Volvo_ and kept him there. Bloodshot eyes were wide and fixed to the vices on screen, barely able to tear themselves away.

The struggle, the victim slipping further into the deep. He could hear the men jumping in after him, diving with reckless abandon to free the shackles of the wheel’s vice-like grip.

John held on for dear life, tears streaming as a limp, pale, lifeless figure breeched the surface; his metal chest plate ripped and discarded. Hair skewed, jaw slack.

John screamed his throat raw finally thrashing himself free from his lonely nightmare. Panting, he scanned his damp sheets as an unbearable fever submerged him; leaving him feeling winded, quivering, _aching_ to be touched.

For Simon’s torturous, delectable touch.

***  
  


That night had passed in a blur. A vodka fuelled, coke reinforced blur. John somehow, in a place he couldn’t name, had encountered one of his biggest idols. The man responsible for so many films he’d lost himself in: whether it be the suave _007_ on the hunt for his next prize or, for to be the lucky bird who’d be swept off of her feet.

John honestly wouldn’t have minded either of those positions. He was ready to admit that the thought of such power and such submission were both incredibly arousing. He liked his art a little perverse, why try to hide it?

He was on the phone to Roger the following morning, the sweats having finally worn off.

“We’re doing it.”

A long pause, “what?”

“I think, we’ve got it, Rog. The next fucking _Bond_ theme!” He couldn’t hide his thrill. It was a childhood dream, or it probably would’ve been if he had picked up a bass before turning sixteen.

Another long and excruciating pause from the Gloucester end of the line: “what are you talking about?”

“No more shitty Bond themes. It’s _our_ turn.”

Roger couldn’t hide his skepticism nor could he completely mask his excitement.

“_Power Station?”_ he breathed in a slightly condescending tone, not very Roger like. “John, _what_ did you do?”

His words flowed quick but he didn’t stumble, retelling the events with the notorious Cubby Brocolli. _When’s there gon’ be a Bond theme that don’t suck ass? Would you like to write that theme, John, that ‘don’t suck?’ Wait what, let me pick my jaw up off of the floor... YES, y-yes, sir, yes!_

Although it pained John dearly, the boys had to reunite. Such an opportunity was a once in a lifetime honour. This was it, the comeback.

“You and me, Rog. Get your ass down here so we can try and hammer out something for…” He paused for unnecessary dramatic effect knowing full well that Roger was rolling his eyes, “_A View To A Kill_.”

Neither man could hold back their laughter.

“The hell kind of a title is _that?!_” Roger stated, clutching at his chest with mirth.

“Beats me but hey, we’re doin' it. It’s set in Paris. I see it now.. us all stalking about the city, you drumming atop the _Arc De Triomphe_, Nick and I roaming countless galleries… Andy a villain up the _Eiffel Tower_, French guys.. it’s just, you know, it’s bloody perfect.” John’s voice was light, swooning, for the first time in weeks.

Roger felt it, not wanting to pull him from his wet French dream too quick but there was a much bigger weight on his mind.

“Charlie’s going to have a field day writing for that title. Poor sod.” It was a joke but John didn’t miss the intention: the matter of fact.

“_Fuck_.” He muttered, more into his shoulder than through the phone. “He won’t know what freakin' hit 'im.”

“He really won’t. You sure uh,” Roger paused. _Always the rock between a multitude of hard places._ “You’re okay with this, Johnny, seeing him for—”

He was cut off by a huff, some Brummie sounds that he couldn’t quite decipher through the static and then, John continued.

“—For the good of the _band_. Yes.” He ground out, gearing up for the challenge.

Roger’s disbelief was audible through the cord John had nervously wrapped around his fingers.

“Whatever. We can do this.” John took another shaky breath, tears somehow forming in his eyes. _Goddamn hormones._ “_We_, note my confidence, _will_ do this. Get the first Bond theme to number one.”

“Alright a toast too… A View To A— shit, Johnny. What was it again?”

“_Kill_.”

“Yeah, drink to that.”


	7. To Look Through The Eyes Of A Stranger, For Rumours In The Wake Of Such A Lonely Crowd

John strut through the airport, eyes shielded and head down. He thought it funny that nowadays he could, more often than not, just _walk_ _through_ crowded cities without the body guards; without swarms of fans flocking to his torturous honey. Even in New York, for his self proclaimed Cathaholic Mother’s sake. But even with this newfound, he supposed he could call it, _freedom, _John still knew he had to try and keep as incognito as he could. _Heads turning as the lights flashing out are so bright, _he found an old voice crooning in his mind. However, that didn’t mean that in the here and now, he would stop to perfect his pose.

He was at JFK, amongst hundreds in the midst of the evening hustle and bustle. Roger’s flight had been delayed near four hours - _fucking snow on the ground and Gatwick never being able to clear it efficiently, the assholes _\- and he cursed, slumping into a quieter corner of arrivals.

John fumbled for his bag, pulling out his diary and pencil. He had never been much of a lyricist himself but when an idea struck, he had to run with it. He was always more of a journalist, documenting his days stuck in the crummy _Citroên_ running up and down the country, crammed into the backseat and being wrestled by other Taylors to rip his diary from his grip. Then, they were doing the same in a lavish tour bus.

Journalism was always a favourite past time of Nigel’s. He noted down everything, in his own special way. John’s thoughts momentarily traveled backwards: to the times when he, Nigel, had written about a couple new young men who had entered his life with such promise and hope. And rhythm.

He could still vividly remember the little hearts he had drawn around a certain young man’s name.

Back to now, satisfied with a few notes that he had added to his so-called ‘Alfred Hitchcock set list,’ he put down his diary and waited. With a flick of his wrist, he noticed that it was approaching 20:00 hours and it was a long night without his little _helpers_, to sit through.

John yawned, wide, and stretched his arms up above his head.

“Oh _fuck_.”

Maybe he had missed the recent lull in press coverage but that didn’t mean he was ready to whore himself, or the life growing inside of him, out to… whatever teeny-bop magazine had just remembered that his face _made_ them and formulated their now iconic brand identity.

John’s shielded gaze raised, anything but willingly, and his mouth dropped open, anything but reluctantly. He roamed the figure; lean yet lightly muscled who was decked out in a lovely mid to high end priced grey pinstripe jacket, with shoulder pads so high it screamed that he wasn’t to be ignored. He wore delectable leather trousers that, John noted, he himself had once owned with his favourite shaped studs running down the sides of those scarily long legs.

John’s eyes traced every lump and bump; the tight-fitting leather leaving little to nothing to his already vivid imagination. He felt his mouth water before suddenly turning dry as his own beautiful chocolate brown eyes landed on some even more, impossibly, stunning blue ones. They gleamed, catching the light as the man smiled: his dimples were the most adorable sight John had ever seen.

He was blonde. His hair was spiked, frosted tips appeared to glow like a halo. _Come to heaven, Silva Halo._ His jaw was set, perfectly cut, and his lips were parted: dripping in sex. The man flashed John a toothpaste advert ready grin and impossibly: he melted.

  
Without thinking, or anything coherent forming in his head, John motioned for the man to take a seat before him. He had bags in hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

“D’ya mind if I,” he gulped, stalling, “have one of those?” John asked, pointing to the cigarette packet crowning from the man’s left pocket.

The figure looked down at himself then back to John’s ever-growing smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes yet but his confidence was growing, there was time.

The man smirked, nimble fingers pulling a cigarette free. He passed it to John and their fingers brushed in that cliché way John had began to notice in the films where both would shiver and automatically an attraction would be formed. He cursed inwardly at the irony. The promise pulsing through him: starting at his finger tips. The man just watched him, knowing full well that John didn’t have a lighter.

He chuckled before asking, “‘Ave you a—”

The man brandished it and leant forward.

“Thought you always carried.”

John bit his lip. “Trying to.. you know.. cut down.”

Their eyes locked, shielded brown on striking blue, as the flame was ignited. Between them, the cigarette sparking as John inhaled. He closed his eyes, with a moan, mere inches from the open and inviting gaze of the mysterious and tempting stranger.

“You’re not doing a very good job are you, _Mister_ Taylor?” The man chuckled and John couldn’t ignore his shiver. The sound grew, like a scale, reaching a perfect sound that made John’s chest flutter.

Despite himself, John was laughing and throwing his head back as he fell further into it. After a beat he returned his gaze, bringing a hand up to cover his face, wincing at his embarrassment.

John knew better: he’d had scores of men, alphas and betas, pull him into their laps with cigarettes lit and shots to down.

For erections to brush his leather restrained own.

  
It was the game. Just how John liked to play it.

John snapped from his daydream, the nicotine swirling about his suddenly heavy head. He hadn’t heard what the figure before him had said. His words bled into a rhythm, perfectly crafted, singing of praise and promise, protection and perhaps friendship. Perhaps, more than a one night stand which John was no longer sure the man so craved.

When he could re-engage it became apparent that no, he wasn’t a reporter and no, he wasn’t trying to corner him for any juicy details of the break up- _split_. The split.

  
_Me and the band or me and—_

“You really _are_ more beautiful than your pictures.” He was British. A Londoner as John could immediately tell, feeling more comfortable. He was already trying to place it, the accent.

  
_Gotta be somewhere west._

John couldn’t help but blush a little. He was just thankful that his round shades could hide the glimmer in his eyes.

_Ealing. Someplace near Ealing._

“I always thought,” the figure paused to take a drag, aiming the exhale away from John like a true gentleman would do, “they were edited. Chosen only to reflect you in the best light. But now I know that you, John, are _dazzling_ in any and all light.”

John clung to his every word.

He fumbled with a reply, stuttering out a ‘thank you’ and was grinning from ear to ear. Inwardly John groaned over his wave of insecurity, he had spent years burying the vulnerabilities that he had once hidden so deep behind the thick rims of those glasses and the thick fringe falling into his eyes. The eyes that gave _everything_ away.  
  


***  
  


Both men moved to the little café, passengers seeming more sparse as night crept on them. He had almost forgotten why he was here, at JFK, in the first place.

_Oh right, Roger _\- his mind laughed - _Anything for Roger. _

John just listened, he wasn’t keen on revealing all himself and was incredibly thankful that together they kept the conversation light. The man’s voice was magical, mystical, flowing thick with a slight cockney twinge. He chuckled when the intensified notes bellowed and shivered when the man’s words grew breathy.

John had perked up when the man revealed his career: an impressive, alluring pilot. _Pilot_. He was reminded of the rush he once felt, making models of jets and cars as a child. Little Nigel would spend hours locked away in his room, working to perfect all the details, ensuring the colours were always as close to the originals as he could get. He was a stickler for the details even then.

John admitted, “I had wanted to join when I was younger. But I knew physically, this frame,” he glanced down, pouting, “wouldn’t ever ‘ave been able to.. uh, _handle_ it.”

  
He had a flashback to a 1983 interview back on home soil, right after the whole ‘dancing on vodka bottles and twenty stitches later’ incident.

_“Do you play any sport?”_

_Biting back a laugh, John looked down at himself. At the stick, absolutely ashamed._

_He played it cool though, giggling his way through, “what, with this body?!”_

_“But you’re in good shape, though.”_

_“It’s all that prancin’ about on stage” only one of the factors that kept him this way, so slim, he didn’t say._

John immediately brushed off his vulnerable tone, favouring to steer the conversation away from his childhood dreams. Besides, he’d accomplished his teenage dreams and exceeded far past any and all expectations: he couldn’t complain.

”_British Airways_ hiring?”

“No, John!” The man was near cackling, “a _fighter_ pilot,” he chuckled, eyes never leaving John’s widening ones, “I could never fly a chartered airline—”

“—Too slow?” John chipped in, raised eyebrow inching above the circular frame of his darkened glasses.

“Precisely.” There was a chuckle. “I live for the thrill.”

Maybe nowadays he wasn’t as educated about contemporary jets as he was with cars but he still had to ask, “what do you fly?”

“The 1980_ Boeing Chinook_, the transport helicopter in Her Majesty’s trusted _Royal Air Force_.”

The _RAF_ was an absolute dream. It was for any young boy, admiring the pictures on the wall of the jets their fathers and grandfathers had flown in wars come and gone. Drawn in by the medals they wore, the insignia sown in with such pride.   
  


  
John had to momentarily - _that was no dainty-ass plane! _\- pause to pick his jaw up off of the floor.

The man kept talking about his job. The highs of flying, going Mach 2, breaking the sound barrier, all the crazy stunts from the _Immelmann_ turns and split S’ that he had fascinated himself with since primary school. John was suitably in awe as the words, full of hearty laughter, dropped from those lovely lips.

They talked for what felt like an eternity, in anything but awkward silence. It was easy, perfect. Just perfect.

His huge hands clasped around his peppermint tea, he wouldn’t forget the look on the beautiful stranger’s face when he had ordered. _I always figured a rockstar such as yourself would only take it one— —uh, black? _He had pitched in and together they both laughed, John’s own chuckles forming a perfect melody with the lower, more guttural below of the man. _Yeah, John-can I call you John? Black._

_Coffee makes me sick these days, _he had to stop himself,_ haven’t the foggiest as to why? _ringing thick in his Brummie tones.

The words were still flowing, the drinks were long gone. Without warning, a long, dexterous hand shot forward and clutched at John’s face: hovering for a split second before landing on his sunglasses. Both hands slowly, gracefully, peeled them from John’s face and in a tender moment of intimacy John let slip a throaty moan, following the hands as they retreated. His eyes slipped shut and his auburn locks fell into his face. John was smiling, small, but it portrayed his understated beauty in all the ways he didn’t feel he could anymore.

His face was glowing, a dash of embarrassment coating his puffy cheeks.

Finally, he pried open his eyes and took in the darkened, hungry look of the baby blues before him. Before he could comprehend it he was leaning in with his hand resting atop another hand, so foreign yet so familiar, pausing mere inches for the lips that parted for him.

“I didn’t..” John paused to lick his lips, “even ask you.. you know, your name.”

The man grinned, plush lips caressing John’s slight acne ridden skin, “name or callsign?”

“_Name_.” John breathed, wondering immediately if the callsign would’ve helped the man better define himself to John.

“Charles.” He whispered, breaths interweaving with those of the bassist, “It’s too professional for a man such as myself. Friends call me Charlie. Comrades call me _Tiger_.”

_Charlie_.

_Tiger. _

_Seven and the Ragged—_

John’s eyes bugged out of his head, every emotion from fear and disillusionment rushing up to choke him; to pull his long limbs from the table and within moments he was running, bag slung across his shoulder, through the sparse hallways not even bothered about covering himself.

He rounded a corner and slipped into the bathroom. His cheeks were wet, tinged red. John couldn’t even remember when he had started crying. _Had Charles seen the tears? If he had, why hadn’t the handsome motherfucker laughed?_

Was John himself even aware of this cruel trick of fate?

His head span, the cream walls seemed to close in on him; swirling about his tired mind in colours he was sure were taunting him. They screamed in blinking red and black and red and black. Danger, warning, death. _Love_.

It took all of John’s strength and a sudden group of teenage boys who just gaped at him, from throwing his fist into the mirror and watching, screaming, as his heated reflection burned before his tearful eyes.

He stumbled, at first, as a hand clapped his shoulder. The fingers wrapped themselves around him, the weight familiar and re-assuring.

“When am I gonna meet you without you having tears in your eyes?”

John immediately wiped at his face, cursing his hormones before falling into the open and awaiting embrace.

“Fuck, Rog! I’m so happy to see you.” He practically threw himself at his drummer, who promptly stated that he was still to wash his hands. “Oh yeah, right.”

They disengaged. Roger leant over the sink and John studied him: the dark circles, the slump in his shoulders. The messy hair, rumpled clothes. - _Not very Froggie at all - _John stepped back and swore, almost falling over Roger’s luggage that littered the space between them.

Then, in a swift and cheeky tone, “I thought you were meant to be waiting for me in _arrivals_. Not here, for a Taylor reunion in the toilets.”

  
“Boys will be boys, eh?”

He managed a chuckle, the mental images of them all in the bathroom together were endless, all fumbling over the urinals and trying not to catch sight of something they may regret.

Not that John ever really regretted it. Those games were fun, back in the day.

  
“And they say only women flog to the bogs in packs.” John choked out, trying to laugh.

Roger stepped behind John, motioning him towards the sink. John squinted as he took in their silhouettes, the steady hand on his quaking shoulder. Together they surveyed the other, their reflection. Roger’s lip tugged upwards, both knowing that John lacked the conviction to grace him with a beaming smile.

Roger didn’t know why but, he knew better than anyone, that if John didn’t want to elaborate he wouldn’t and, if he did, Roger would be the rock for him as always. They were the perfect percussion, the bassist needed the drummer to guide him through his tempo and beats.

Now resting his chin on John’s shoulder he muttered, “we best get to the taxi otherwise I’ll be fallin’ asleep on your shoulder, Johnny.”

  
John had a momentary flashback to a photoshoot of the five of them where Roger had come to lean his head on John’s shoulder and John, skin alight, fought with himself not to rest his own head atop of Roger’s. To not grind his shoulder into that cut cheek.

Roger was met with a little chuckle. “Fans think we are gay enough.”

Roger beamed, happiness breaking through to John.

“If only they knew how right they were.”

  
“Yeah, _Tigger_. If only they knew...” the drummer let it linger, shoving his new but oh so fitting wedding ring into John’s face.

Goddamnit, John’s laughter was ringing through the toilets. To each bewildered onlooker and surprised fan.

***

The two superstar Taylors posed for pictures on their way to the taxis up front, taking a moment to sign anything and everything the fans had on them.

John was surprised as to where all these fans had just appeared from, the sounds of a little girl with crazy blonde ringlets murmuring the infamous _why-y-y-y-y, don’t you use it?_ melted his heart. He found himself performing a duet, taking a hold of her tiny hands and dancing with her; much to Roger’s amusement. That was a definite Simon move.

They rocked out, heads banging as Roger and the little girl’s mother cheered them on. John was laughing, hysterical, before he crouched down to hug her goodbye. Her tiny little hands wrapped around his neck and she immediately buried her head in his mullet, brown locks painting her flushed face.

“Wow, you’ll make a wonderful father someday.” The mother smiled, thanking John for his time. “Who would’a thought it?”

“Exactly my thoughts too, ma’am.” John noted, with a smile meeting her own.

The little girl yawned, slowly defecting back to her mother’s side to clutch at her leg.

“Wouldn’t put him in charge of any _meals_ though,” Roger’s brummie accent pierced the air. “If it was down to John, it would be pizza and chocolate night after night.”  
  


The three adults chuckled as the little girl stifled her yawn at the mention of ‘pizza’, suddenly no longer tired.

“What can I say, Rog? I’m a sucker for Bourneville.” John winked, the notorious chocolate factory only half an hour from his and Roger’s childhood homes. “And _Thornton’s Continental_ but that’s stuff hella pricey!”

Ah, Bourneville: the pride of Birmingham, mostly. They had the bull, _Selfridges_ and all those universities, too!

“_Cadbury’s_ all the way.” Roger agreed.

John knelt down and hugged her again, silently cursing that he had nothing to offer her of any value on him in the moment. He flashed her another dashing smile and she giggled, beckoning Roger down for a group hug. Her mother readily snapped a picture and bid them farewell.

  
***  


Roger heaved his larger suitcase into the boot as John initiated a game of _Tetris_ with the other, failing miserably, as together they tried to fit every bag in. Howling, John slammed the boot and led Roger round the front. He opened the car door and held out a hand to motion him in. Roger just rolled his eyes before clambering inside.

“How far to your place?”

“About ninety minutes, plus or minus.”

“_Fuck_.”

“Yup. Welcome to _The Power Station, _Rog!” John was grinning ear to ear as Roger chewed his bottom lip. Then, he deflated. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Roger hesitated. “No, no. It’s nothin’ in particular. I’m just.. sorry Johnny, I’m too shattered to even think ‘bout _drumming_ right now.”

John smiled, softer this time. He decided to stay quiet, keeping all his burgeoning thoughts and questions at bay for the ride back. He watched as Roger’s hypnotic eyes began to slip closed before turning away from him, gazing at the midnight through the window. He watched the endless lights and deserted streets, as they grew closer and closer to Times Square.

John was more than willing to pick Roger up and carry him in bridal style, for his own amusement, but the sudden pain in his lower back shook him from his daze.

_Oh yeah, right. Pregnant. Shouldn’t carry heavy shit._

He nudged Roger awake, knowing it was nearing seven AM back in England: the man had skipped the night and the initial jetlag further West was always a bitch no matter how often they flew.

“You know I would carry you if—” He was cut off by Roger’s infectious laughter. “You’re too... uh, you know, _heavy_ for me, now.”

“Heavy?!”

“Yeah Rog, you do weigh a bit.”

“_Asshole_, I actually have to use these limbs!”

John sniggered, resisting the urge to reach out and grasp those strong and supportive arms. Roger immediately saw that was what John wanted to do. He raised an appraising eyebrow before opening his stance again. John, without a second thought, fell into step and enveloped his no longer so lanky limbs around the drummer.

“God, I missed you, man.”

John didn’t escape the ‘_fairy_’ that was half giggled into his neck.

“Love you too..” He coughed ‘_wanker_’ into his hand and was met by a shove from Roger.

“Just get me to my bed in one piece.”

“Now _that’s_ an offer a man simply cannot refuse!” John raised his eyebrow, tone dropping in mock seduction. “_I’m on the hunt, I’m after you!_”

“Oh God. Please, no Duran. I mean it.”

Roger cocked his head - _shouldn’t he have been laughing? That was pretty damn well timed -_Together they scrambled from his taxi, luggage surrounding them.

“Let me.” John grabbed his arm as Roger fumbled for his wallet. John brandished thirty dollars from God knows where with a smile, motioning Roger to his bags.

They were faced by a huge sky scraper; the tallest and most impressive one in the city with the dim of the night lights beckoning a sleep-deprived Taylor inside. John was thankful that Roger was never really moody, unlike himself, when the tiredness got the better of him.

“Which floor are we.._ fuck!” _Roger groaned as the realisation, the sudden quirk of John’s lip, told him all he needed to know. “Christ, Johnny. It’s a little far from Birmingham.”

“Only a _little_?” Their laughter intertwined.

The Taylors would be wracking up a monster bill in the penthouse. Neither man could hide their excitement.


	8. And If The Stars Burn Out, There’s Only Fire To Blame

He was thankful to have scored a Number 1 after what felt like so long away from the top spot: home. The Christmas Charity single by _Band Aid_ sat firmly at the top of the charts and _Do They Know Its Christmas?_ did indeed play over and over throughout the festive period.

  
John had seen the video and had come to the realisation that he and his fire engine red self promoting, he always had an outfit relevant to each tour, _Duran Duran _jumper had somehow been featured more so than Simon. _Wow_, he considered himself a lucky bastard, holding his own amongst the biggest names in the UK music industry. He and Andy managed to keep it together, the collaboration was a complete dream and he got to meet (and intimidate) said biggest names in the business.

He couldn’t help but snigger knowing Simon was terrified to sing with Sting.

The boys kept their distance from _Culture Club_, of course. Although John admired Boy George’s make-up from afar: very avant guard. Classic New Romantic. _Were Spandau Ballet even allowed in there?_ John couldn't remember. He surely encountered a Kemp along the way.

What he did remember were the high pitched giggles of the _Bananarama_ girls as he chatted them up (Keren had the best laugh!) and Geldof’s face as they finally got some time alone to discuss the cause and crack joke after joke; he really was a swell guy.

To say that he wasn’t a little star struck amongst the likes of Paul McCartney and Phil Collins was an understatement. Midge Ure receiving virtually no credit for his efforts was indeed criminal.

***

_The Power Station_ crew would be ringing in 1985 with a surprisingly small celebration, in terms of scale. For each member though, they were overjoyed. The album had finally come together, Roger’s hypnotic snare beats and tantalising long solos were indeed the final piece to the puzzle.

  
Or, the five times he actually hit those Octobans. They looked oddly like drain pipes and had given _Wild Boys_ that raw edge, totally fitting _Some Like It Hot _with the ‘_blat-blats_’ (as perfectly summarised by the drummer himself) too.

The five of them lay limp with nicotine and tequila swirling about their minds. John, thankfully, had only the former whirling about his body having declined Tony’s offer and was met by an amused raised black eyebrow. John now occupied the sofa, letting his fringe - _can I even still call it that, at this length? - _fall into his eyes, his newly adopted black bangles jingling behind his head.

He pretended not to see the worrisome look painting Roger’s face as he reached for another cigarette.

John figured that Andy was keeping Robert and Tony occupied so, at the notion of being caught in Roger’s headlights, he upped with the drumming Taylor following him out of the room.

“John, you.. uh, I, I think..” Roger began, with a deep breath, “you really need to watch it.”

John exhaled, the smoke thick when surrounding them.

“Watch it with the cigs, John.”

If anything, it drew him closer into Roger’s space. He was trembling, a shaky hand bringing his cigarette back up to his lips.

“How far along are you now?” John turned away, knowing full well that A) where this conversation was heading and B) Roger probably had a better idea of that than he did.

“... Two months.”

Shit, John had surprised himself that he did in fact know how many days ago that breezy November Tuesday morning was, when he’d found out. That day in the rock doctor’s crummy office, head in his hands before he had smiled with what was quite possibly the biggest and least forced smile of his life.

“How many have you had?”

For a brief moment, whilst he bought himself back to reality, John hesitated.

“How many what, Rog?” John replied, feigning innocence. Or to stall for time, trying to mentally total his cigarette total for the final day of 1984.

Roger’s eyes narrowed, the sign that his patience was wearing thin and, if John wasn’t careful, he’d be giving in way before Roger did.

“_John_.” He insisted, tone non-negotiable.

He heaved out a sigh, bringing his hand to his forehead and rubbing at his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know.. four?”

“_Seven_.”

John dropped his gaze. He knew full well that death stick number seven was pulsing between his lips.

“Don’t you understand what you’re doing? Please John, what are you doing to yourself?”

John was silent, he took another drag. He pretended that _killing myself _wasn’t his first and only answer.

“Of course you fucking don’t. What are you even running from, _this_ time?”

John looked up, challenge burning in those intense, fiery brown eyes. His own appeared angelic in comparison.

“The addictions? The baby?” _Simon_ didn’t go unheard. “He’s not even here for Christ’s sake Johnny. If he knew, he’d be killing himself more so day after day when you... fuck, turn him away and shut him out! Have you even stopped to think about _him_?” Roger stammered out, voice in a desperate attempt not to hitch too high. To not scare John into a deeper silence.

John wanted to blame the tequila that Roger had consumed however, it had only been two shots. This was him, the liquid had only provided a little courage - he was not at all ready for this conversation. Not now.

Roger went on an on, telling him, _pleading_ with him: to cut down; to get help. And this, this was only about his smoking.

“Why won’tcha let any of us bloody in?” _Great, Andy._ “It’s not fair on ‘im.” He clapped a hand on Roger’s shoulder who stiffened in agreement then, immediately he found his voice.

It became heated, fast. The others weren’t oblivious, Andy having joined Roger’s side leaving Robert and Tony to stand between the arguing Taylors without any context of the situation. - _Thank fuck that Bernard wasn’t gonna see this shit. -_ They didn’t know Roger as well as John did but, hearing an outburst like that certainly wasn’t in his character.

It was like saying he would leave _Duran Duran_ for good: the lapse in judgement was mother fucking unheard of. 

  
Right?

The words became distorted, John’s head blurred the yelling into insults, to targeting and finally, the missile that had blown him out of the sky. He was, simply, a sitting duck on their radar.

It hadn’t ended well. John’s pulse raged, his hands shook and he couldn’t bite back his words. He too hurled insults, each one delivering a hit to his own pride: it was _Roger_. And Andy. John would never act as repulsive as this, they were his friends. They were the best of friends. Ones who had followed him all this way, putting family and reputation on hold for him and _his _dreams.

Sensing his defeat, he huffed out a frustrated groan and stared heavily at the floor.

“_Hold Back The Rain_, right? That’s what I’m fuckin’ meant to be doing, ain’t it!” It wasn’t a question.

John shoved his hands in his pockets and marched on past the crowd, actions voicing his frustration, heading straight for the lift down. He ignored Andy’s hollers and Robert’s calls of concern, lips sealed tight. The bassist bit back every retort, slamming the button and praying for the lift to arrive sooner. He didn’t turn back, not once.

“Leave that shit _unanswered with a question mark!_ Fucking assholes.” He grunted.

John stumbled through the reception of Power Station studios, the clock having just past eleven. He slipped past the doors and a full body shiver overtook him, having left his boxy black coat inside. Rubbing his hands up and down his arms he picked up his pace, storming straight back towards the penthouse skyscraper. It would be a long walk traipsing through the snow, skidding on the ice as it crunched beneath his cowboy boots and chains. Hopefully it would be enough time for the raging fire inside him to be burnt out or, at least, reduce it to a spark.

Besides, _there’s only fire to blame._ Simon had tried to teach him that years ago, slipping it beneath the hotel room door. Needless to say, no man had ever gotten very far in _that _fight.

Along the way he kicked the odd mail box, slid across the snow-covered roads and gave an unceremonious middle finger to the taxi that had almost hit him. Then again, this time shoving two beautiful fingers up as another taxi sped around a corner and he hadn’t felt the need to move.

John was wrong, he couldn’t be any more wrong about his current, perplexed state. Running high on nicotine and fury, fury that would be fuelling his eventful return up to the penthouse, John was banging his head against the wall of the lift, tears burning hot streaks down his flaming cheeks.

Storming back into the Taylor penthouse; he made a beeline for Andy’s room knowing full well what he was after. The clock would be striking midnight in moments and he might as well fucking _celebrate_.

John swiftly grabbed the bottle, murmuring - reciting back the argument. He swigged then downed it, heaven on his tongue. The gulps were audible, the liquid burned his throat as it pooled with content in his stomach. Next, the powdered salvation followed. He hurriedly chopped it, snorted it, and was well into his second line.  
  


**Ten.**

The vodka bottle was half empty.

**Nine.**

It was launched into the mirror.

**Eight.**

His fist followed.

**Seven.**

The blood poured free.

**Six.**

Reckless punches flew.

**Five.**

He retreated, glass piercing his skin.

**Four.**

The glass sliced him open.

**Three.**

He fell to the floor, screaming in pain. He couldn’t look at his foot, stained red and raw. He couldn’t feel his hand, streaks of blood were trailing down his arm.

**Two. **

“Here’s..” his voice was a whisper, cracking, “to a better.. nineteen.. eighty.. fi—”

His world came crashing down, the cheers and fireworks boomed their way upwards. The only sounds keeping him clinging to consciousness.

**One.**

John’s world snapped itself to black.


	9. Don’t Say A Prayer For Me Now, Save It Till The Morning After

Sirens blared, monitors beeped. The sounds were shrill, coming faster than what they should’ve been. The ringing was unavoidable, growing in intensity with any and all sounds crashing into one huge ruckus of pure torture.

Voices had been heard, they were gritty and distorted. People were talking to him, slapping him in the face. Touches to his sweat slick chest were unavoidable, the shakes and the jolts weren’t tender, nor violent.

Eyes tried, with determination, to pry themselves open. Lips parted, then closed. Breaths were heaved, shaky and proving futile.

Sirens blared, monitors beeped. The sounds were coming faster than what they should’ve been. The lights, pure and white, burned behind eyelids. They didn’t open. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t dare.

  
***  
  


“John… _John! _Holy.. John, talk to… just… its _me!”_ Words were formed but they weren’t heard.

Shapes were being formed, they were hazy and distorted. He tried to adjust, clinging to his sound of his name. Over and over. The voice was bleary, as if it was being choked off by salty tears, or strangled. Strangled by the very situation that John had put the man through.

What had he put this man through?

“John… Please... open your eyes, baby, _please!_”

John shifted, heart pumping in slow and irrational movements. The simple action of raising a hand or braving the sight of the man proved too much: too exhausting.

He settled for a groan.

“_Nigel_.”

He couldn’t associate the voice, nor the time it had taken to be able to cling to another vocal. It was rich, familiar, booming with a subtlety that was trying desperately to shake him out of… whatever the hell he’d gotten himself into this time.

“Nigel, come on.. you.. can, Johnny, you can do it.”

Murmurs, low and persistent. They weren’t alone.

_Who’s Nigel? Who are you talking about? That’s the John… what do you mean his name is Nigel? Who’s Nigel?_

Rich and powerful contrasting soft and subtle. John attempted to pout, only wheezing to vocalise his frustration. At that he felt the sudden body heat, hands palming at him: his stomach; his head.

_Who’s Nigel?_

“… John... John! He, he’s _awake_!... need a… get a doc—” He couldn’t piece it together.

A blazing white light was flashed at him, his eyes flinging open then shutting again with a hiss. He was being spoken too, tubes and liquids running from him; irritating beeps portraying the sudden rise in pulse. He groaned as he shifted and this time, his chocolate brown eyes could adjust.

John’s mouth dropped open, breath hitching on the single syllable: “_Ni—”_

“—Nigel John Taylor!” He had never heard the man so worried. His thick, rich and silken voice was cracking, trembling even more as he continued to speak. John couldn’t muster up any more of a response; eyes falling to the ruffled… black. Black hair: so, _that_ was why John couldn’t identify him.

_Who’s Nigel?_

“... _Nicky_.” It was released in a single, shaky breath.

John took in his sights: Nick’s face was bare, neither contoured nor heavily lined. He was pure and open, the tiredness wreaked from the slump in his shoulders and the red blotches high up on his cheeks. John knew what that meant, having seen a mussed Nick countless times before from back when they were young with the weight of the world crushing his little shoulders. He knew Nick well enough for the guilt to overcome him and within moments he too, somehow, was crying. Apparently that was the only greeting possible from him these days.

_Who’s makin’ plans for him?_

“Wha…” He sniffed, groaning when he couldn’t lift a hand to wipe the wet coating his puffy cheeks, “happen.. to me?”

_Ooh-woo!_

Nick leant forward, tissue in hand. His deft hand caressed John’s jaw, tilting it upwards. The move was slight, cautious, and John pressed himself into it wincing as he felt the coolness of Nick’s pinky ring. His touch was grounding, it felt like home.

The tears were dabbed lovingly from John’s eyes. Nick gripped at his shoulder, rubbing small circles onto his shivering form. John could see white, the casing enveloped limb after limb.

“Nick, w-what did...”

“I don’t know, Nigel.” John stiffened. He gulped audibly, seeing Nick roll his next words around in his mouth. “Apologies, I really haven’t any idea.”

John pouted, thankful that contorting his face was now an option.

Nick’s weary green eyes focused on John. Without a word, he knew precisely what John wanted to hear and, being the caring big brother he was; formed the explanation.

He told John as much as he knew in his thick, soothing and grounding tones flowing into soothe the ringing in the bassist’s ears. His right arm was in a sling, two fingers broken. There had been multiple stitches in his foot with countless deep scars of where shards of glass had been retrieved. Nick also had a compact, retrieving it from within his blazer pocket. He angled it up to John, to his forehead.

There was a huge, gaping cut. Two no, _three_ stitches that disappeared into his hair line. He had a bruise beneath his left eye, seemingly having settled a few days ago as it was in that strange purplish phase. Nick’s cautious hand pointed to it then, two tender fingers caressed it. John immediately winced: Nick removing his digits as though he’d touched something hot.

John tipped his head, Nick knowing to bring the compact closer for better inspection. His left eye was swollen, slightly, with a little bump atop his temple. The cut was, thankfully, stitched cleanly. John knew it was there but it didn’t cover his entire forehead, it inched across to the left.

“Nigel.” Nick breathed, putting down the compact and stapling his fingers together. He bought his hands up towards his face and heaved out a sigh, calculating his next move. “Why on Earth would you do this to—”

“—Myself?” He interrupted, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yes.”

John pretended not to hear the word _again_. This wasn’t new, as such, he’d be a fool to try and deny it. He’d been loopy on morphine throughout shows before, after having smashed up hotel rooms and taken himself down in his flame. He had barely clung to his senses as the pulsing beat of _The Reflex _rang through Dusseldorf, then Munich, and Hamburg a few nights later. John barely remembered any of those concerts, the entire end of 1983 was still a _my body is broken in multiple places and I have myself to blame, as always, _cocaine-raving blur. 

How eerily familiar this scenario was didn’t escape the bruises of John’s mind.

Something within him clicked into place. With sudden strength John bolted upright, hands coming to rest atop of his stomach. His eyes widened at his own movement and he silently thanked Nick for having pulled the bedsheets high enough up on his frail frame as though the weight gain was concealed. John figured he was still hidden well enough but his tears were falling again, clutching tighter at the life he still hoped was growing inside of him.

  
  


“Nick, what about my—” John gasped before shaking his head. He cleared his throat at Nick’s raised eyebrow. “Where’s... uh, Froggie? I need ‘im.”

The keyboardist focused his gaze even harder, impossibly, onto him. He cocked his head and pursed his lips, John knowing what that expression entailed in a heartbeat. Nick was internally fumbling with how to deliver him the next blow.

“Please Nicky, I need to see him. Is he here?”

Nick upped, reluctantly letting John go. He headed back towards the door, his satin black shirt was trying to glimmer as it caught the light.

“Nick, where are you... _fuck_.” John collapsed back onto the bed as, within moments, he was faced with his rhythm section.

Roger too appeared disheveled. His stripey shirt was half tucked into his trousers, his jacket hung loose and his hair was rumpled as though he had spent every night roughing it outside of John’s hospital room or… wait.

_Sweet Lord._

“Rog.” John rasped.

  
That was exactly what Roger had done.

He muttered, stumbling, as he tried to piece that fateful night back together. What he had said to Roger, what insults had been hurled and whether or not they had gotten physical. John grimaced, defeated, having little to no recollection of this particular incident.

“Somebody please… What day even is this week?”

Nick and Roger shared a look. “January Seventh, John.” Nick relieved him.

The realisation crept up on John faster than he could sing ‘the heat is o-on!’ Seven days. Seven days he had been bound to his bed, held hostage by the tubes: kept _alive_ by the tubes. By the looks of it, Roger indeed hadn’t left his side in those seven crucial days. He hadn’t been stable or, John figured, he would’ve been awoken much earlier. Not only until Nick... how long had he been here? Where even was John?

“Are you in the States? Christ, how did you even know ‘bout all... _this?_”

Had he awoken earlier?

“It’s been front page news since January Second.” Nick stated in that tone he would acquire when having to deliver to heavy facts.

Panic thrummed through John’s veins. “We’ve been in the US three days, Nigel.”

_We? Who’s we?_

“I only wish I had gotten here sooner, we really figured you would have been discharged.”

John cast a glance to Roger, who was standing at the far edge of the bed only inches away from his cast. His eyes were firmly averted, finding something on the floor incredibly interesting.

John had perhaps a million burning questions but, in the heat of the moment and his pride thrown out of the window, he requested Nick give him and Roger a minute in private. Nick swung his head back over his shoulder, dirty blonde hair falling into his eyes as Roger simply shrugged; once again taking it upon himself to be the bigger man. John didn’t miss Nick’s hand brush his arm as he strolled past Roger, almost like the apology that Nick was well aware his baby brother didn’t have the energy himself to give. Or the willingness to do so...

The thought of Nick knowing about that night hit John right out of left field. The thought bulldozed over him, the shame settling in quick. John came to the conclusion that Nick could recite New Years Eve back to him better than he could, with all the gory details left in full. Nick wouldn’t even flinch as the words rolled off of those pastel lips, John ground his mullet deeper into the pillow.

As soon as the door shut, his eyes flung open and a hand came to rest on his stomach.

Sod the press. Sod Nick and him knowing far too much. John had more important, more crucial things in mind: the life trying to spark within him as he readily tried to diminish that fire.

“Rog, please... tell me I,” he cut himself off, welling up and swearing, “didn’t l-lose, oh god! No, Roger please, did I _lose..._?” He trailed off, biting into his bottom lip.

His voice was haunting and it was evident as Roger took in a shaky exhale. He startled as a cautious hand draped atop his own, gripping at him with a light touch.

“It’s barely b-been... fuck! Barely _three_ months and I—”

“—Thankfully not, John.” A ghost of a smile was tugging at Roger’s lips. “You won’t get so lucky again.”

The fear dissipated, his entire body stopped its shaking and almost melted. John thanked the divinity he wasn’t even sure he still believed in repeatedly, over and over, prayers and hopes and wishes filling his mind. With a choked off sob, John bought his hand up to swipe the tears from his face as he managed to crack a small smile.

He inhaled a large gulp of air, releasing it slowly. His gaze flickered over to Roger again, still clasping his left hand. There were a million questions simmering but his eyes were drooping closed again. John slapped himself in the face, grinning as he was rewarded by a chuckle.

“I, uh. Shit. How long have ya been here, with me? Beside my bed?” He didn’t dare to use the word ‘friend’. Not even ‘mate.’

Where he stood with Roger was clearly not up to him in this moment.

They shared a heated glare, two sets of brown eyes threatening to spew tears full of salt, broken bonds and truth. Roger’s face hardened, in a way John had never seen before.

“Since I found you, John, submerged in blood and glass.”

John knew exactly how long Roger had been here. He was the one who had found him, he and Andy, they would’ve called the ambulance and had braved the storm with him.

“You and your broken _Smirnoff_ bottles are nothin’ new to me. Neither are the cruddy drugs. There were at least two lines cut.”

“Oh my god, Roger.” His cheeks were heated, lower lip trembling as he fought the next wave of tears back. John’s voice broke, his hand limp as he tried to reach for the drummer.

Roger had witnessed every moment; every aided breath John could grasp, every test and every sample taken. The thoughts of what else Roger had seen, horrified him.

John couldn’t piece it together. He settled for a horrific scene of a bathroom, the virtual murder shredded the entirety of _The Power Station’s _perfect run. It’s little life has been thrown off course because of John and his own selfishness but, it dawned on him, hadn’t that been the entirety of the project? A chance to run and hide himself behind what he thought he so loved?

It seemed that Roger had been talking to him, his words were a complete blur. All John could focus on was the haunting imagery of the glass. Smashed and abused. His blood. Tainting the ground beneath them. The white powder. His high, his saviour. _Looking for the thrill._

What hadn’t John Taylor broken that night?

He hadn’t just broken his mirror but the trust, respect and care of the men who had stood behind him in it as he examined the stretches in skin; the bulges and newfound weight.

John had the haunting feeling that there wouldn’t be much more of Roger standing by his side. He had thrown the poor man right into the firing line time and time again. Roger would ride or die for John and, although he was crumbling inside, he wasn’t sure just what his heart could take if no- _when _Roger would finally pluck up the courage and leave him. Leave him to fend for himself and the band that meant the world to him.

Leave him to fight his inner demons alone.

This, in the here and now, was the telltale sign that they didn’t have much time left together. The fact that Andy wasn’t here either, well, he was already known for being a _flaky bandit_ but John didn’t blame him for not wanting to waste the gruelling hours in the hopes of having a conscious bassist tomorrow.

How much _more_ could Roger take? John was clueless, mortified at having abused their friendship so. The drummer didn’t deserve any of it and he should be miles away from here in the loving arms of his wife, taking the break he’d so desired. Not holed up in a crummy hospital watching another pathetic attempt at John ending it all.

Despite himself and the rush of emotions lashing out at him, John found his eyes heavy and drooping closed.

How much more Roger _would_ take was sure to be wearing thin. John only prayed that when he eventually woke up, he’d still have a familiar face at his side who wanted to see his eyes open again.


	10. Send Me Your Warning Siren, As If I Could Ever Hide

Two weeks had passed and John was mostly tied to his bed. The thought of hobbling down to the studio had crossed his mind but getting the courage to do so was another pointless endeavour not worth doing. He had been informed of: the album’s completion; press junkets and interviews were being lined up but, thankfully, his fellow Taylors ensured no one would be talking to him live for the time being. He could accept the odd phone interview, column review, but John was to pose for no photos or participate in any live broadcasts to promote the supergroup.

Although one shoot was required for the album cover so to hell with it. He posed behind them all, the camera man laying on the floor for the perfect high angle shot. Only the delicious curves of John’s throat, highly powder defined cheekbones and black satin lips could be seen.

Nick had left him two days back, under the guise that his project needed him. That and, how could it had slipped his mind, Simon was writing a certain theme for a certain franchise that had John quaking in his (one) suede boot. He was incredibly grateful to Nick who had managed to help keep their place in order whilst John was held captive elsewhere. There was even a little ‘yay, you survived’’ basket of goodies from England laying atop of his golden sheets. Full of records; magazines; a demo tape for something he’d get back to later and all the _Cadbury’s_ he could’ve asked for. That and the jar of beans, he missed _Heinz_ with a passion.

“God bless you, Nicholas.”

John had arranged with Nick to fly across in late February to work on the theme tune for_ A View To A Kill_, in the hopes that the lyrics and the backing synths were already more than developed. Roger and Andy would be leaving before him, as he had other commitments in New York before the eventful (Re)_Union Of The Snake_ was due to take place: Ealing Broadway - London. February Twentieth.

London. London meant Simon. London meant sharing a hotel with Simon. London meant seeing him, breathing the same air as him.

_Fuck_.

John fought with determination, to keep his thoughts from straying back to those blinding blue eyes, the golden hair, the plush lips and those fingers…

Voice cracking on the single syllable, John cursed the hot spill of fluids as they coated his slender fingers. When his eyes had slipped shut and when his mouth had dropped open... he had no idea. He hadn’t a clue of the time, or how long he had lain solitary, a casualty to his wandering dreams turn quaking nightmares turn a torturous reality.

It was the longest he’d gone without sex since before the band had released their first album and his days of a simple wink in a girl’s direction practically ensured him company until morning. Or, the simple rest of a strong hand atop of his hand would have him shivering, panting on his back as he was taken. Devoured, riding sensation as he fell deeper and deeper victim to the raging fire pulsing between his legs. That and, those legs of the man before him, whoever it may be that night.

He just couldn’t. Sex was off the table, he knew that. John was losing control of his body. There were new addictions and pains, irregular trips to the bathroom that annoyed the hell out of him and the morning sickness still drove him mad. However he was reminded every once in a while, of who he was doing all of this for. His little bundle of joy, thankfully he had stopped grimacing at the baby related cliché’s that his mind now so readily formed, who he was itching to meet. It was only January, he still had a while to go.

The first trimester, the most dangerous of them all, was almost at an end and, he’d already put her through a whole hell of a lot.

But hey, there would be a literal _New Moon On Monday _and_ last time la Luna,_ all jokes aside, he really did want to make a change for the coming astrological phase.

Thankfully, after his little hospital stint, reality had rushed up to him and slammed him head first into a brick wall: what he was doing was wrong, unhealthy. Ruining the chances of his unborn child getting the best start in life. His money could only stretch so far.

It would be hell however John vowed, to his Cathaholic mother Jean at least, to cut back. Upon returning to his penthouse suite, he promptly dumped all liquor bottles down the toilet. He hadn’t touched a cigarette. The cocaine was still there and the cravings were still wild but, one line. One was better than three or four. Okay, maybe the odd cigarette every few hours but alcohol was, ironically his biggest evil of them all, out. And what a surprise that was.

John thanked the waves of nausea that had crept up on him out of nowhere for the repulsion and he was reminded of the early days, the _undiagnosed_ \- as he had come to call them - days of blaming his alcohol intake for his sickness.

  
***  
  


John hadn’t wanted to live 1985 with secrets that tore him apart inside. It was a New Years Resolution that, unconsciously, he had already failed. Robert had apparently visited him multiple times in the hospital and, although it pained him dearly, he wanted to confess.

Together they took up the plush sofa in the midst of the gigantic living room. Each had a cigarette and, as the nicotine swirled about his already heavy head, John let out in a single breath:

“I’m pregnant.”

John would never grow tired of the reactions he provoked from those he loved dearly. He had been terrified to tell Robert, in fear of the shame and judgement that was sure to be forming however now, he was in far too deep to care.

“Three months. Due in July.”

John had always been incredibly self conscious. Whether he blamed the glasses or the hair falling into his eyes, he no longer had either to hide behind and besides, he couldn’t camouflage his bulging stomach from the guys that much longer. The mood swings, the changes in behaviour; they weren’t stupid nor oblivious to sense these as changes. How he was not purely him, most of the time.

John had been broadcasting it all using the damn Bat Signal. _They should really consider making it a film, it’s bound to do great!_ He painted his ‘Gotham’ a maroon red though, adding to the harsh black.

He was incredibly relieved to find Robert just staring at him, intently. As though the ghost of a smile was about to coat his handsome face.

_Too easy, he doesn’t believe a word of it_.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an idiot Omega who really _is_ pregnant. Laugh it up, you twat.”

Robert leant forward, they were inches apart. He swiftly stubbed out his cigarette and, without warning, yanked John’s from him.

“Hey!” He interjected, hand jolting forward in hope of retrieving his still lit cancer stick. “_Wanker!_”

Wordlessly, Robert lurched forward and slapped John across the back of the head. His face creased up, sending his one good arm to massage where the blow had landed.

“Well, that’s new.”

“Why in Holy hell are you smoking to beat the band then, Taylor?!”

_Oh okay, that wasn’t expected._

“Huh?” John turned back to him, eyebrows furrowed, “I really... shit. I really thought you were pissed at me for gettin’ _knocked up_ not for... you know, um, the smoking.” He couldn’t help but giggling through his words.

Robert rolled his eyes, a grin coating his sun-beaten skin.

“You best cut down on these or, my God,” Robert ignored John as his mouth parted, retort ready to fire. “Stop it altogether. Don’t you want the best start in life for your child?”

His voice was small, cautious. “You actually believe me, then?”

John felt queasy. Having had the same internal argument since waking up to Nick and Roger, whoever else, to Roger’s inevitable concern and perhaps finally the health risks were starting to hit him.

He hadn’t even stopped to think what having a rockstar father would mean for a child. She’d be in the limelight, growing up for the camera learning how to dodge and manipulate the press.

It would be perfection if John himself could perfect his own tactics, there.

It wasn’t long until he was whimpering, floodgates near breaking point, clinging to Robert’s pristine white shirt and slick black tie. He felt two soft hands caress his back, although his stomach felt chaffed, he melted into the embrace and a single tear caressed his cheek.

“Don’t you see.” He broke off, with a small sob, “I... I can’t! I mother fucking _can’t_ do it! There’s too much, too many... fuck, you know, _temptresses_.”

“Temptresses, Christ. Sometimes Taylor, you really are a moron.” Robert barked out his laughter.

  
_Was that meant to mask his concern?_

The two huge hands pulled John away from him, settling on his sides. Their eyes locked and John felt his pulse rabbit. His lips parted as he shivered in Robert’s tight grasp.

“Bollocks, John. You need help, it’s never too late.” He steamrolled over John’s attempts to butt in and correct, to challenge and complain.

There they sat slumped in John’s penthouse living room for what felt like an eternity. Words and tears were flowing free beyond John’s control, he could feel another pulsing headache burning behind his eyes. A shaky, breath hitching, John again fell into that supportive frame, hearing the singer croon the support he could offer, who John could talk too, the professionals who would be willing to help him make a change. Those who would force said change.

“It’s all for your... _baby._ Holy fuck, that is an incredibly scary prospect.” Robert was laughing, low and rich. It was oddly comforting and John half hiccuped his own laugh, creating a beautiful and reassuring melody. “John, apologies for being so forward here but who is the father of this little, uh.”

John ground out. “Bastard?”

Robert’s eyes widened. “I would have gone with _miracle_ but yeah, that too.”

John stiffened. He bought his left hand up to wipe at his nose and resisted the urge to reach for the abandoned packet of lung rotting relief lying on the coffee table. The waft of nicotine, in that moment, was an impossibility. John wanted to say he knew better but would be fooling nobody.

With a deep huff, his Brummie drawl cracked on “_Simon_.”

John couldn’t look Robert in the eye. He focused on something above his shoulder and considered that a win as it wasn’t the floor or his own tattered fingernails.

“You think so or you know so?”

John’s gasp was audible.

Robert was laughing and, some crazy how, John found himself joining back in. As the backing vocals, this time. Where he would always much rather be: supporting the main act. He hated it the other way around.

  
“You really have control over who gets... inside there?”

  
John nodded, chuckling, before biting back into his bottom lip.

“Now _that_ has page one written all over it. Duran inbred.”

“Duran inbred, that’s the best bloody one!” Together they howled as John perked up, hearing Mr Newcastle grate through the door. “They’re all over each other. All. The. Fuckin’. Time!”

“Bullshit.”

“Tryin’ to deny, Johnny, is bullshit.”

“_Twat_.” John grinned. “Hey, Ands.” He was about to get up to hug him before both Robert and Andy pinned him back down to the sofa.

“Gotta go easy on the foot, mate.”

“And that _child_.” Robert pitched in, voice low.

Andy dropped down beside him and then they hugged, laughing in John’s satin clad shoulder. He was oddly cautious, not bulldozing himself into John’s needful embrace; being careful to watch the bandages. John leant into Andy’s warm leather, smiling.

Andy muttered into his ear, he almost missed him state: “So _Tigger_, you’re telling all the people who probably had a lil’ respect for ya now?”

“Respect?” Robert laughed, gaze roaming Andy’s chains and spikes.

John chuckled. “Just those who actually care ‘bout me and aren’t using me face for extortion purposes.” He quipped pulling away, meeting Andy’s bright, sparkling gaze. John could smell the beer on his breath and he shivered.

“Leather and extortion. That’s the JT wet dream.” Robert stated.

John started laughing.

“Plus the whores and his druggie buddies!” Andy continued.

John stopped laughing.

“We calling Simon a whore now?” Robert couldn’t keep a straight face, neither could John.

Goddamnit, the giggles overtook him again and together they were cackling, wild and free. John didn’t dare answer.

It went without saying that Robert would be keeping his secret. It also went without saying that the lack of cigarette smoking clogging his lungs was painful, in all the right and wrong reasons.


	11. And When She Shines She Really Shows You All She Can

Slamming the alarm clock, John groaned as he turned to slam his head back into his pillows. John missed the days in which he was on tour and a super special, secret note would be shoved under his hotel room door to detail the events of the day.

They were always concise, immediately to the point:

**DAY: MONDAY 18, FEB**

**TODAY IS: ULTRASOUND DAY.**

He had always laughed at those notes half expecting them to state, and sometimes wishing they indeed did, YOUR NAME IS: JOHN in the demanding and pushy tones of his tour managers and friends.  
  


He lay on his back, hair skewed, still in last nights clothes. He had gone out somewhere, gotten hit on, nearly kissed a man with a mullet that matched his own in terms of hairspray and extravagance and snorted a line of white heaven. Probably two lines, he had company and keeping up appearances amongst the sea of naked men had to be done: not that he removed more than his leather trousers in the process.

“Five.. mo’ bloody... minutes.” He croaked out.

Reluctantly, John slipped himself from his cocoon of golden sheets, the satin made a weird ‘shushing’ sound as he collapsed, falling like a sack of coke-thin potatoes, to the floor.

“Fucking _foot_.”

Trying to latch onto the bed to heave himself up, he felt a surging pain in his right wrist.

“Fucking _hand_.”

They were both still bandaged although, thankfully, he would be removing his sling the night before flying back to London.

He stumbled into the bathroom, wincing at the light that blinded him. John surveyed himself, grunting, and refused to shave under the pretence of being too tired and not wanting to cut his pretty jaw. He splashed his face with cool water, fumbled for the towel he knew was somewhere behind him and cursed again as he tripped ceremoniously on the soap that coated the floor.

“The hell?”

His lotions and creams had been splattered, bottles half empty. His toothbrush was nowhere to be seen and shaving foam littered the wet tiles.   
  


_What in the bloody hell had happened in here last night?_

“Sweet Lord and Baby Jesus.” John rasped, rubbing at his tired eyes and grinning like a loon.   
  


It was probably best that he didn’t let his torturous imagination get the better of him, in this instant at least.

***  
  


He slumped through the doors, practically glueing himself to the pristine cream walls as he snuck around the corners. He fell through the sets of double doors, making weird faces as new smells of cleanliness and sterilisation hit him.

He wore an oversized, boxy black coat in which his gloved hands were shoved in deep. His greasy hair flowed free to conceal his face. He kept his head down and sunglasses firmly planted in place.

“Appointment at Midday. Taylor.” He fiddled with his leather glove as he uttered the words, they still felt strange rolling off of his tongue.

“Take a seat, Mr Nigel _John_ Taylor.”

John began to stalk away but a high pitched giggle ringing through the air forced him to turn back. The woman was beaming, blonde curly locks falling into her face as seductively, she bit into her painted red lip.

  
_She smiles but that’s cruel._

Rolling his eyes behind his shades, John headed back to her desk. Leaning over he listened to her thick Bostonian drawl, raised a comical questioning eyebrow and hand to his face before replying. “Hmmm, you may _indeed_ request my services, luv.”

She shoved her perfectly manicured nails into her desk drawer, giggling, to retrieve a piece of paper. When John took a closer look he recognised silhouettes and when she held it up to him it caught the light.

John couldn’t help but smirk: _Tigerbeat_.

“Where should I sign? Atop of the lipstick stain here, or here?” He pointed to each lavish kiss, “perhaps in the only corner where I ‘aven’t been _assaulted_ by some dashing red lips?” He pouted, waggling his eyebrows.

She blushed violently as he slipped the pin up back over the desk. She held it tight to her chest, wreaking of both embarrasment and desire.

“The military era. Always frickin’ _hated_ it. Strange... I can never get enough leather!” John flashed her another dreamboat smile as he ran a slender finger down his trousers, hands settling teasingly in his belt loops. The woman blushed deeper, stifling a moan as John pivoted on his heel and began to walk away.  
  


***  
  


A gruelling twenty minutes miraculously passed by. He watched, sneaking glances at the other men who passed through the dreaded doors. Some were further along than him, the tiredness in their stances vocalised that. Some were still new and coming to terms with it.

Then, the appointment before his crashed through the door. Two men threw themselves at eachother, kissing, the omega being hoisted up and thrown into the air. A sea of applause erupted from the men surrounding him and he just watched, lips pursed, as they strolled towards the door hand in hand, snogging the entire way. He couldn’t help but feel a warmth at seeing other men so overjoyed to be in his position. Seeing the love in their eyes, the excitement and most definite clarity.

He almost missed the doctor call his name.

“Shit.” He rasped under his breath, scrambling to his feet. He hobbled in behind on his crutches and took in a deep exhale: _here goes nothing, John._

“First visit?” The nurse leant over, helping him with his coat.

John nodded, wincing as she accidentally caught his sling. He was nervous, of course he was. No amount of cocaine could hide that, the endless front page worthy pouts and smiles wouldn’t get him anywhere. They’d see through him in a heart beat.

Was that why he’d gone ham last night?

“Okay, John.” A soothing, very masculine voice flowed, “please, take a seat. How are we feeling today?”

Wanting to be loved and adored? No flaws?

John blushed. He clasped his hands together atop of his stomach and rolled some words about in his mouth.

Probably.

“John,” he was prompted, “how are you and baby doing? How have the first twelve weeks been for you, first and foremost?”

“Hell.” He chuckled, embarrassed and even more vulnerable.

He could stare thousands of screaming, sweaty fans in the face and smile, grind, party and frolic on stage. But here, in the close proximity amidst the endless pregnancy charts, tools and scary things that he didn’t recognise, this close and personal to the doctor; he couldn’t raise his gaze from his hands.

“Nausea, pain, tiredness and swelling?” The nurse asked, prompting John to lie back.

“A shit load. Everythin’ just bloody hurts.”

_What was the doctors name again?_

The two professionals shared a knowing glance. Then, the nurse turned to John and lay her bright red fingertips atop of his shoulder. He jumped, eyes landing on the wry look creeping onto her face.

“I’m afraid, Mr Taylor,” he could’ve sworn she stretched out his name, “it always is but, at the end of the day, it’s all gon’ be _worth_ it, ain’t it?” She winked.

He found himself nodding along, latching onto their words and letting their voices carry him through the appointment. Only when a thick, cool gel was applied did he break free from her reassuring gaze.

“Fucking hell!” John giggled, immediately apologising for his language.

Doctor… _Adams, that’s it, _just grinned as he moved the wand. It caressed him in small, circular motions. John found himself clinging to the tingly background music that flowed from a tiny radio in the corner of the office.

His eyes began to slip closed, seeking peace, Adams kept on talking to him, asking more questions in which he found himself more able to answer, with little hesitation.

_ **Wild Boys! Wild Boys! Wild Boys!** _

His eyes flung open at the pulsing beat, the raging snare and heated synth. Raising his head, John’s gaze landed on the radio. Both the Doctor and Nurse laughed and, within moments, the station had been jacked up to full volume.

_ **Wild Boys! Wild Boys! Wild Boys!** _

John’s cheeks were burning, chuckles in the room were deafening.

Of all the songs to play during his freaking _ultrasound_, it had to be this one. The world was conspiring to torture him, to embarrass him in any which way a cruel divinity would. The implications, the lyrics held such a… homoerotic and suggestive tone. John had almost missed the hitches of breath, focusing on the thick beat.

“Wild Boys fallen far from glory. Reckless and so hungered.”

The nurse began singing along. John quirked his head, mouth dropping open to expose his adorable overbite. Damn, she was good.

“On the razors edge you trail. Because there’s murder, take it Dan!”

“By the roadside!” The Doctor pitched in, voice low and silken. He really didn’t seem the type to like a teeny-bop band such as _Duran Duran_ but, they were trying to break that mould now, weren’t they? No, _hadn’t_ they broken that mould? With the _Wild Boys _video? 

“To hell with it. Help me up, please, luv.” John grunted, sensing the relief of those around him. He took the Nurse’s perfectly manicured hand and eased himself into a sitting position, opening his diaphragm and...

“Wild boys, never lose it. Wild boys, never chose this way. Wild boys, never close your eyes.” John paused, taking a huge breath. “Wild boys. We’ll never not bloody shine!” He sang, well, _tried_ to sing.

There were reasons he did the backing vocals - plenty of completely logical and necessary reasons. However this time he had Doctor Adams and Nurse, he squinted, _Olson_ to sing his parts.

Then came the infamous instrumental. John caught the mischevious glint in the Nurse’s green gaze, knowing full well what she wanted to see.

“Here goes nothin’, luv.”

John leant back so he was again bound to the chair, hands outstretched. He writhed, slamming his head into the headrest in perfect time to Roger’s thrumming drum beat. Three cymbals, he ground his hips into the chair. It wasn’t quite like being tied to an upturned Volvo, decked out in chain metal but John took to the stage: it was a strange and not at all necessary moment but he would be extra as the event called for it.

Doctor Adams was howling whilst the ghost of something darker had overcome Nurse Olsen’s eyes. She licked her lips as John did, he gifted her a seductive wink and let his head crash back into the headrest a final time.

As the song faded out, Simon’s screams dulled into Nick’s synths and Andy’s raging guitars came to a end. John was cackling well into the next song.

“I think we’ve had enough fun for one appointment, don’tcha agree ma’am?” John asked, a tinge of bemusement still evident in his voice.

“Oh, Mr Taylor, I ain’t so sure.” Her tone sounded mischievous, a sly grin painting her guise.

John had all but forgotten the wand until the Doctor placed it back onto his slick skin. He shivered.

“Well, John. It appears that little _Rio_ of yours is a beautiful dancer.”

“_What!_” He yelled, cocking his head up to the screen. _Oh right, ultrasound._ “Is.. holy.. t-that?” His bottom lip trembled as he squinted, cursing the fact that he again favoured his contacts over his glasses.

“Yep, John Taylor, _that’s_ your baby.”

John croaked out a sob, bringing his one good arm up to his face. His mouth hung open in wonder, his eyes bleary as he studied every little shape. It was blurry, the grey fuzz was hard to associate. John noted that it looked a little like a seahorse. _Couldn’t the male species of them get pregnant, too?_

Doctor Adams pointed different anatomy out and John clung to every word.

“Are you happy, now, John?” The Nurse had leant down, lips inches from his left ear.

John’s eyes never left... Rio. _Rio_, what a beautiful name for such a beautiful place. And for the rock and roll foetus, his brows furrowed as he mulled it over: Perfect.

“Can you k-know, the uh, the gender this early, Doctor?” He stammered out.

“Yes, but with the position your baby is in, it’s indeed hard to determine. I would recommend in the next ultrasound, John, when your child is more developed.”

Although a little dissapointed, John nodded.

“Andy Taylor,” he coughed, “our guitarist, he bet me fifty pounds and a stage dive that it’s a boy.”

“Stage dive? You better not in your condition, Mr Taylor!”

Both the Doctor and Nurse chuckled, John felt immediately at ease.

He studied the foetus, his Rio, intently. Determined to remember every little fuzzy lump and bump, he payed extra close attention. He wallowed in the feeling of the slick gel, the doctor and his ministrations and finally, finally it all felt real.

John was dazed, running on a new high that was unlike anything he had ever felt. His child was indeed beautiful, a dancer. Never in a million years did John think he’d have a name for the unborn child in the womb. Never. The boys were sure to rip him to shreds over it but, for the remainder of the nine months, it was Rio.

John and his Rio, dancing on the sand.


	12. Trading In My Shelter For Danger

Two days later and he was quivering in his (still) one suede boot, chains clinking, having overslept and trying to duck through the crowd without being recognised or falling flat on his face every time some idiot stumbled into his crutches.

He kept his gaze averted, cursing the fact that he would be taking a chartered airline that practically guaranteed enraptured fan after fan would be lining up to meet him, to chat, take a photo and be generally convinced that their meeting was aligned by the Gods. That it all meant something to him. Something special, something sacred. Sure, since the blur that was the sex-crazed tour in 1983, fangirls hadn’t been swarming with the sole purpose to jump him but that didn’t mean it couldn’t still happen.  
  


It was always worse when he found that he must fend for himself. However now, his hormone crazed fans would be lurching, be jumping at him and his _child. _That prospect, if it indeed came true, scared him shitless. It was lethal.

***  
  


John couldn’t sleep. Nor could he find the strength to remove the _Virgin_ issue blazing red blanket that did nothing to warm his body temperature and was such a sore on his irritated eyes. His glasses didn’t hide much, there. Having booked his one way ticket back to hell so late, he didn’t fancy the first class extortion and reluctantly settled for business class.

He couldn’t escape the sideways glances, with the _fuck off_ riding in his eyes appearing amplified through the thick and round frames. Being in no mood to socialise, he huffed and grunted his way through the entirety of the gruelling nine hours - _fucking turbulence slowing us down, as opposed to slicing the journey time - _he recalled in distaste. He had spent the entirety of the flight psyching himself up for the inevitable reunion.

The snakes would be spewing their venom within minutes. Whether he’d be struck with that bite or would be the one to lash out himself, was beyond him. He couldn’t stand to think about it almost certain, his temper would ensure the latter. Was _he_ the snake?

John’s mind plagued him with guilt, a running commentary of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘what the bloody hell are you doing, asshole?’ He bombarded himself with worry after worry.

How could he think straight when the man he so… Christ. The man he so _what?_ His mind stilled, the whirring of incoherent words finally coming to a gracious halt: no longer suffocating him.

“It’s all for the, uh... _good_ of the band.” He wheezed, wrapping the blanket higher up his body.

John didn’t dare to remove it, in case some beady-eyed sod stared a little too hard and started making their own totally unfathomable connections that would have the tabloids creaming themselves in no time. Although to John, the press were surprisingly much less of a worry than what he thought they ought to be in the confinement of his 747.

He did however momentarily pride himself for what he so wanted to call ‘creative genius’ that had taken over aboard his flight. His deft hand had fingered his tattered notebook, scrawling illegible notes alongside his ‘Victor Hugo’ set list that still needed a better, more understandable name. Whether it would get him anywhere, who knew? Only time would tell, there. And if it did, it would be a hell of a notorious - _huh, that sounds promising _\- comeback, hopefully he’d still be with band members that actually wanted to be at his side: sharing the spotlight again.

John touched down on home soil with the raging beat of his own _T-Rex_ cover blasting in his Walkman and a distinct scowl firmly in place. Intent on slumping his way through the overcrowded, over stimulating Heathrow, fans flocked to him. They were screaming in delight as pulses rabbited and hormones soared. He ducked past them all, not very kindly, yanking his suitcases from the carousel as best he could with one working arm and then proceeded to stalk straight through the arrivals gate.

A little flicker of a memory of his last time in an airport, back in JFK, arose. He stopped to drop his bags and stood stationary amidst the sea of chaos. The image of that little blonde girl, her voice and how she had swooned when he crooned in her tiny ear, the look of adoration from her mother’s striking hazel eyes. The words _you’ll make a wonderful father someday_ had touched him deeply and again, he found himself reliving them. Two tender hands rubbed at his chest with a sigh. He couldn’t hide his smile.

_Today_, he decided, the fans could wait. _Today_, he needed a bed and a nice stiff drink.

Shit. Not a drink. The heavenly liquid hadn’t caressed his eager tongue in near four weeks. Not since the delicate glass of his beloved _Smirnoff_ cluttered the floor and his blood tainted the pure, innocent cream tiles.

Something else. _What other delicacies were at a rockstar’s disposal, again?_

He then found himself incredibly _Lonely_ _In_ his _Nightmare_, having already pushed out the heart-clenching memory of euphoria from just minutes before. With a flick of his wrist, the bassist checked his watch and his eyebrows furrowed. He headed for the taxis, crutches proving more frustrating than ever. He let his mind drift, wandering further, deeper. He blamed the lack of sleep for the blinking lights that flashed a single, solitary name over and over. 

In blue and silver, singing to its own sultry beat.

  
  
***  
  


“Two mo’ fuckin’ days.” John grunted, flicking through the channels and reluctantly settling on _Top Of The Pops. _

Two more days before the inevitable (Re)_Union Of The Snakes, _as he now was calling it. He couldn’t help but snigger every time the phrase sprung to mind, unsure whether it was genius or pure stupid.

“Crummy chart.” He sniggered, as they counted down to the new number one. He’d never even heard of the band that had claimed the second spot and was content on keeping himself in the dark about:

“The hell are A-…huh? Ha. _A-ha_?” He wondered, out loud. “They’ll never get anywhere with a name like that, surely.”

Although John couldn’t deny that the front man was beautiful no, _hot_.

Wait no, all of them. All _three_ of them. A crucial three were smoking hot, dripping in sex and owning it. Goddamn.

“These guys make _Spandau_ look as though they crawled outta the dumpster and us...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Crikey!”

  
He stared a little longer, relaxing back into the hotel king size and decided that fine, okay. Not such a crummy chart after all. He’d have ruddy _Take On Me_ stuck in his head all day. How a man could sing that high and hold it was truly beyond him, John was suitably in awe.

John had always found it odd, watching a countdown without seeing himself crop up at an undoubtedly high chart position. Two, maybe three times- it had happened on more than one occasion, especially with _Rio _throughout the entire summer of 1982. Granted that _The Power Station_ album had another month until its release; the idea of re-entering the charts, for once in his life, didn’t terrify him. For the supergroup it wasn’t about chart positions, fancy videos and elusive promotional tours and selling out concerts in fancy arenas. It was about the music: rocking out and having a good time; making memories and lifelong friendships.

Finding himself again, letting himself be heard and not only on a self ‘whore-ing’ out level.

“Would be nice to hit the top ten, though.”

For what would become the title track for _A View To A Kill_, all those anxieties swirled about his head again. There was a hell of a lot riding on this single track. Their sound, the cooperation... this single would be added to a rolodex of iconic Bond lyrics and instrumentals. It wasn’t solely a Duran effort, John had to remind himself.

They had the likes of Paul McCartney and Shirley Bassey to compete with, for fucks sake.

The prospect of messing this up petrified him more so than those first nights on tour where his hands were barely able to strum in time, _Planet Earth_ always being the worst (too damn quick and he still struggled so he had the backing track, _it’s not snobbery or anything_ but he just still couldn’t bloody do it) He was absolutely terrified of the bum notes ringing through the arena and the fans coming to hate him, ragging on his talent, from the get go.  
  


***  
  


Two days later, John smacked off his alarm clock with a grunt, half submerged in his cream covers. He had tossed and turned again that night, then again had settled for lolling his head back so it collided with the headboard as the sunlight beat its way through the curtains. His brunette hair dangled into his eyes, in dire need of a trim and some hairspray, and suddenly: he felt incredibly self conscious.

Hobbling to the penthouse en-suite he grasped ahold of the sink. He squinted as he surveyed himself, half awake.

“Christ,” John’s hand traced the stubble coating his jaw, “lookin’... bloody _great_ today.” He groaned.

The jet-lag was still a bitch, his gaze was bleary and unfocused having skipped another nights sleep and not having taken any liquid courage or white salvation to compensate for his loss.

White salvation. Oh shit, fucking damn it, _shit_.

His nostrils tingled, he licked his lips a couple of times uncontrollably. Shutting his eyes, he engulfed some sharp air, hands clammy and rubbing together. Falling forward, he again clasped the sink and breathed through the craving, fist banging against it. He uttered violent curses as the pain lashed out from his temples. His entire body felt numb, quivering, as the tears formed and the swears dropped.

_Would someone please explain? The reasons for this shoddy behaviour? _His mind miraculously pieced together in the highs of his own personal, private power trip.

_Shoddy?_

John fell to the floor, his body suddenly incapable of taking his weight. Feeling his stomach lurch, he shuffled to the toilet and barely made it in time. Voiding his guts, a sweat settled on skin that coated the goosebumps and made his hairs stand on edge.

“Mother..” He cut himself off, again facing the toilet, heaving. “.. Fu.. _fucker!”_

Later, content that he had nothing left to watch come back up, John crept to the wall of the en-suite. It wreaked, he scrunched his nose and let his head tip backwards, cool against the slick tile. He just sat there for however long, the time in which he’d be seeing the band again creeping up on him faster and faster.

He trembled, jittered, on all fours with his face now inches from the floor as his fist collided with it.

Perhaps he was screaming. Perhaps it was all tears. He didn’t know and his brain didn’t care to try and decipher what were his other options. All he knew, in that horrific moment, was that he was aching. _Craving_ for the easy way out. _Starving_ for every escape route he’d been so fortunate to have known he could take. Then again and again.

The lack of provoked euphoria didn’t stop him from longing after the one touch who, John had once felt, was near as perfect a high as the unmentionables. Not quite a saviour but pretty damn close in the moment of back arching, toe curling pleasure.  
  


***  
  


The taxi ride through to Ealing was the longest of his life. John, in the midst of the February haze, stared out of the window: people and vehicles passing by in a blur before the low level fog, or was it just soot?, swallowed the figures whole.

“Which Taylor are you again?” A thick cockney accent asked. “J, uh, J.. James? Jack?”

“_John_. Bass.” He answered half-heartedly, eyes not leaving the sight from outside the tiny window.

“Oh, that’s right. My daughter has pics of ya plastered all over her damn wall. I’ve never stopped to take a closer look.”

Only when the taunting, mystical tingles of a track he knew so well poured out through the stereo did he snap from his daze.

** _Was I chasing after rainbows?_**

** _One thing for sure, you never answered when I called._ **

** **

He flung his head back, grinding into the cheap material of the head rest. His eyes snapped shut as he bit his lip, exposing the column of his throat. His Adam’s Apple bobbed, the prick of tears behind his shut eyes were burning.

** _And I wiped away the water from my face,_ **

** _To look through the eyes of a stranger._ **

** **

Bringing his now cast free right hand up to his lips, he bit into the cuticles of his fore and middle fingers: the ultimate tell he was nervous and desired, if anything, _contact_. Up close and personal. Tender and protective.

** _For rumours in the wake of such a lonely crowd,_ **

At that, John broke down. He swore, breaths hitching to an irrational pulse.

“E’rythin’ alright back there?”

** _Trading in my shelter for danger._ **

** **

Wanting to bury his pathetic little outburst in his hands, he found himself hunching over and stifling sobs as the chorus came around again.

“John? What, is it ‘cuz I didn’t know your name at first? Christ, you musicians can be so full of ya’selves.” John wasn’t listening.

The vocals intensified, the hurt in that voice echoed throughout the small space. It pounced at him like a tiger clawing its way into his head. The sounds wouldn’t leave, trying to deafen them with internal screams and guitar solos he demanded himself hear instead proved futile. They were all being dulled by Simon’s lingering notes. That and, the breaths John may or may not have imagined him taking penetrated deeper into his hurting soul; his clenching heart.

The heart that John knew, better than ever, was weeping for him. To be held, caressed, wanted and taken care of. The heart that would make his own feel whole, encasing him in those strong arms and not let him run away like a coke-strong fool again.

To not allow John to focus his attention, his own love and adoration, for the vile substances that got him through his measly day.

He wallowed in the embarrassment, shoulder’s quaking at the back of the taxi as they pulled up. John near missed the grunt of the driver who, had been babbling the entire journey, demanded his fee. He payed and tore himself away from the newfound comfort of the backseat, hands quivering as he took in, feeling queasy at its height, the skyscraper.

Simon’s apartment building.

Everything told John to bolt, to run as fast as the crutches and stitches would let him. Knowing it wouldn’t be far, he was never much of an athlete anyway, he staggered his gait and plodded up the stairs one by one. He tapped the buzzer.

The wait for a correspondent voice was torture. John was still shaking, face flushed and cheeks aflame. Nick’s booming voice let him up and, in a desperate attempt to hang onto consciousness, his head repeatedly hit the wall of the lift the entire way up. Thirteen floors and now his head hurt, great. _Real smart, you asshole._

Clambering out, thanking no one in particular that he had had the luxury of riding up alone, he paused. Plastering his back to the wall beside the lift, he engulfed a large breath and held it. He swiped at his damp eyes and fumbled for the sunglasses half hanging out of his jacket pocket.

John had worn the largest shirt he could find, one that would hang off of his now not so slender body nicely without looking idiotic. It was black, the front covered in huge white and grey squares in a nice check pattern. He loved the shirt, he couldn’t deny that but he wasn’t wrapping any belts around it to since in his waist as such these days. It didn’t fall as nice without them. The bassist made a mental note to not remove his coat unless it was strictly necessary: in case the building was burning and all of a sudden his body temperature was through the roof and they were all running for their lives.

There may be no fire but once he slipped through that front door, there might as well be. John knew, disappointed in himself first for thinking so, he’d prefer to crash and burn. Go down in the flames he was certain were to ignite at any moment.

He stood, already exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion, outside. The thin walls were the only thing separating them, this time. It should be easy, he could fall into Nick’s arms, lay a head to rest on Roger’s strong shoulder, laugh himself hoarse at Andy’s dirty jokes and stare Simon down with besotted and beautiful eyes.

His hand hovered above the golden knocker. Retreating, he made a fist. His heart was racing, the beats pounded through every inch of his body racing from adagio to vivace in seconds. He bought a hand up again and, swallowing his pride, he tapped it. Once, twice. Three times and he was virtually falling through the door wondering when had he started leaning so heavily against it?

All eyes were on him: the flush in his face; the rumpled hair and clothing. The boot that still trapped his foot, the crutches that had dropped, lifeless, to the floor.

All that John was certain of was that, there and then, his stumbling and the current state of his clothing even made Nick’s so-called ‘dancing’ in _New Moon On Monday_ (or the whole collective of ‘we’re cold/drunk/need to pee so let’s bop about and set off fireworks because revolution Duran’s) look as flawless as Michael Jackson’s moonwalk. He made the other boys look good. It was a strange change of pace.

None of that mattered. A single, frosty gaze scrutinised him: glancing over and staring hard. It was the one gaze he couldn’t face, biting his bottom lip and scratching his forearm for the sake of moving.

That gaze was raging, violent and impossibly colder than anything he had ever known.

That gaze singled in on him, lining up, a target warning ringing through his head. He couldn’t move, couldn’t bend over to fetch his wayward crutches and just stood, mouth now agape as, for the first time in months, he was seized up by the singer. The singer, who was a mere two metres away, standing up straight with a gaze hard and sharp as flint.

Why John was over-analysing that look was beyond him. He was a deer in the headlights: well and truly fucked as though he had just waltzed off of stage and was trying to hide the fact that he had fallen flat on his pretty face moments earlier. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face the scrutiny.

  
_Headline in tomorrow’s papers: Duran star John Taylor throws self from window_.

Finally something, a slender and manicured hand, braced his shoulder. He immediately sprung into action, having stared dumbfounded for who knew how long straight through the blue. The crutches were in Nick’s grasp and he took them, steadying himself before hobbling over to the sofa.

  
_Kill that light, it’s so bright and you’re shining it right in band mate Simon’s eyes._

John made it apparent to sit as far from him as he could, keeping his eyes averted at all times.

It was just one song. One little number that made his stomach churn and head spin. One measly little number that would be the comeback.

There was far too much riding on it. John was inches away from spewing his guts right then and there but wouldn’t, wouldn’t _dare_ let himself sink that low. Not with his company. In his, _one_ of his, houses.

He wouldn’t dare raise his eyes and take in the look of a stranger. The stranger who still left his mouth watering, who’s savoured touches on his skin left him reeling.

The same stranger that left him shaking, quaking, rocking into the dead of night with shamefully good orgasms.

The stranger who had given him the greatest gift of them all: the life blossoming inside of him that ensured John would never be alone with his nightmares, his cravings, his search for himself again.


	13. Goodbye Is Forever And Forever

The taxi ride back was even worse than the trip there. John sat stationary, chocolate browns fixing themselves on the tiny droplets as they rolled down the tiny windows. He replayed the day over and over, the words yelled and the things that were thrown. It wasn’t just him, however, that made the unceremonious reunion one of the worst days in his life.

How he hadn’t just launched himself into Simon’s strong arms and bawled was well and truly behind his comprehension.

Simon had been staring intently at him, as had Nick. Two sets of beady eyes roamed all over him, trying to associate any changes in physicality. The changes in behaviour John was broadcasting from the damn _BT Tower_ back home.

The craving for his beloved powdered revival hadn’t even been so severe, at first. After traipsing out of the apartment building John had taken a single whiff of the smog-ridden air and had practically collapsed. He was on all fours, jolting, tweaking as he ran a desperate hand under his nose as desperate teeth cut into a trembling bottom lip. He groaned, it was choked off. He tried to stand, he stumbled back into position. The rain beat down all around him, his clothes soaking through and sticking to the new bulges around his mid-section. His black, oversized satin coat hung loose and his ruffled mullet was now plastered to his forehead.

There he lay, on all fours and screaming, drenched through. Another rock bottom.

***  
  


Three days later and he found himself crutching his way into a coffee shop with Nick, barely being able to hold back the bile that rose in his mouth every time the strongest of drinks slid past him. The smell was intoxicating, vile.

“Peppermint?” Nick raised a now again blonde eyebrow, “Peppermint tea? That seems much more of a _Nigel_ drink to me then John fucking Taylor.”

_Coffee makes me heave. It’s terribly missed._

John had just forced a smile and plopped himself down into a chair. Out of the corner of his shielded eyes, only by his glasses but they still acted like protection, he noticed a little swarm of girls forming. He groaned inwardly as Nick took his seat, sliding in with such grace it captured John’s thoughts by making his tired eyes settle on Nick’s angelic face.

The conversation wasn’t easy, it wasn’t the typical banter that had John laughing like a buffoon whilst Nick somehow kept his composure completely: the only momentary raise of a sardonic eyebrow and pout being the tell that he was holding back his chuckles. It was strained, John was calculating and re-calculating every word. Every breath. He was leaving pauses for where there should’ve been retorts and when it came to Simon… well, let’s just say Nick almost got a teapot to the head.

“You both cannot go on like this, John. If for no one else, for the good of the band. We need you both back on top form, minus all the tears and bloodshed you both seem to be leaving behind.” Nick gulped at his black coffee, letting the steam swirl and frame his beautiful face.

_Both of us?_

John took another hasty gulp, wincing as the liquid burned his tongue. He would have let his fingers drum atop of the table but he refrained, knowing the tapping sounds would only drive Nick up the wall. John couldn’t chance irritating him anymore than how he already had.

He cursed himself at the prospect his glasses only enhanced the worry in his eyes; the wall he was erecting between them.

“John?” He had barely heard Nick’s words having lost himself long ago, riding the accents and personifications in his booming voice. “Nigel, you have to explain. Charlie and I are at a complete and utter loss.”

John’s head snapped up, eyes watery and hands quivering. He paused halfway to bringing his fingers to his lips, knowing his nervous biting of a cuticle would be the ultimate surrender: Nick would anticipate so much.

Taking a shaky breath John tipped his head back, hitting the brick wall behind. He uncrossed his legs and slumped further into the plush of the booth, jacket falling open and hands resting uneasily at his sides. He missed the genuine look of concern in Nick’s heavily lined eyes. The black, to John, meant repulsion was staring back at him, laughing.

Reluctantly focusing on Nick again, John ran his eyes over him: his bolero jacket; the shine in the golden buttons; the intricate swirling detail that added some bling to his shoulders. Underneath Nick wore one of his beloved striped t-shirts, in which he would claim bought his outfit back down into the ‘casual Rhodes’ category. At first John had smirked, having also opted for stripes over spots. Although the pattern on his shirt was no where near as elaborate as Nick’s. They still matched though, John had found some comfort and nostalgia in that fact.

John was completely clueless as to how long Nick had been talking for. He focused his attention elsewhere, again trying to force the nausea that passed every time an innocent person glided past them with the strongest coffee he could imagine. _Fucking cravings, wait. Did that even count as a craving, not wanting it?_

Time for a major elephant in the room. The mood had shifted, the lull in Nick’s husky baritone finally pulled John from his daydream.

“I have something for you.” Nick pulled out something small, black and slick, from within his bolero pocket.

A single finger, nails coated black, slid the mystery object across the slick wooden table to John who sat dumbfounded.

John felt the familiar tap on his bladder. _Again, Rio? _“I’ll be right back.” He upped and headed to the loo, resting heavily on his crutches.

When he returned he examined the situation, having all but forgotten what Nick had previously said to him. For the first time in about half an hour, he found some words.

“What the hell is this?” He picked up the cassette, letting an oddly unfamiliar weight into his grip.

“I knew that you would have forgotten about the first one I sent you—”

“—Huh, what first?”

“Real articulate there, Johnny. Yes, the first demo tape I sent you:_ Election Day_.”

“Election?” John’s brows furrowed as an adorable bout of confusion swept his face. “Nick we don’t have an election for another, shit, when’s the next general election?”

Nick rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his pink lips. “You’re not old enough to vote, yet.”

John’s lips parted, exposing his overbite. He cocked an eyebrow as he mentally tried to wrack his brain.

Nick could read his expressions like a single waft through last month’s _Vogue_. “No luck remembering?”

John sighed, shaking his head. He swept the brunette curls from his face, noting how overgrown they had become.

Nick, again using his incredible telepathic skills, stated: “Just a little trim, for the dead ends. Then maybe try some gel up top, highlights and also sweep your fringe up and out of your face.”

The way Nick’s words were flowing, such professionalism, it felt as though he was walking through concept art for a shoot. A shoot… about John.

_Holy shit._

“Holy shit.”

_He’s onto me._

“You’re onto me.”

_He knows too much._

“You know too much.”

Nick’s attention landed back on the panic in John’s face. He cursed, knowing that the blush highlighted his puffy cheeks and the little cluster of spots on them. Also the craters on his chin.

“What do I know, Nigel?” Nick asked and John couldn’t tell if he was playing coy.

John sat still, shaking. Trying to desperately ignore the trembling in his fingers and legs beneath the table. He leant forward, stapling his fingers together. He let his head fall into his hands. Whether he was stalling for time or not he wasn’t sure.

“John. Just listen to the damn track, please.”

The irritation in Nick’s voice caused him to jerk his head upwards then eyeballing the cassette that sat between them.

He fumbled in his coat pocket for his Walkman and almost dropped the cassette into his teacup as it felt hot to the touch. John shoved it inside and wound the tape.

A pulsing beat thrummed through him, the vocals were soft yet haunting. The key was drawing him in, making him ride the highs and lows of such mystical lyrics.

** _Sometimes you have no choice,_ **

** _Sometimes you've got no voice to say._ **

Nick paused, scanning John’s face. “You don’t like it?”

** _We can decide this,_ **

** _There'll be no tears._ **

** **

“That unfeeling _bastard!_” He ground out.

** _No tragedy._ **

** _Try, I wouldn’t break and cry,_ **

** _If you walk away and leave me._ **

“Christ, John. We are in public here.”

** _And leave me._ **

“He’ll fuckin’ leave me.”

“Johnny.” He bulldozed straight past Nick’s warning siren.

“And I’ll fucking leave _him_. That’s what this is about right? You assholes.. it’s, it’s all _over_ and I.. I, not just the band, I.. _need_ you.” John took a shaky breath, tears pricking at his eyelids, “now more than.. ever.” He rasped.

** _Hey, goodbye._ **

** _Goodbye is forever._ **

“Johnny!”

** _Goodbye is forever and forever._ **

“_Cunts_. You’re both done with me, right? I’ve put you.. through it, through it fuckin’ all and now you’re bloody done..” He downed the rest of his drink. “Like I was done with.. with..”

“With _whom_, Nigel?”

John froze, surveying the heavy look in Nick’s eyes. His hackles were raised, the tug of those pastel lips looking anything but innocent.

“Simon or Duran.” It wasn’t a question.

He muttered, sputtered. Every noise was incoherent, dropping off of his tongue as the tears broke free. John placed his Walkman on the table, yanking out the cassette.

He slammed it on the table in front of Nick, getting as far as reading ‘_So Red The_—’ before he was on his feet, ignoring Nick’s calls for him to come back and just talk to him. To hash out whatever _inner demons had consumed poor Nigel’s soul_ this time. John didn’t listen, he sped up and headed straight for the door- slamming it behind him.

He stumbled onto the street, diving headfirst into the rainstorm. He was soaked through within minutes.

Traipsing through the gloomy streets of West Ealing, he hadn’t a clue where he was going. The only places he knew here were bars that wouldn’t be opening for hours, a _Sainsbury’s_ fit for a midnight Vodka haul and a certain apartment sky scraper that made him queasy when he took in his sights.

John paused, his stomach flipped.

_Oh fuck._

Diving behind the canopy at a bus stop he pressed his back into the glass, hands massaging his temples. He could feel his vomit rising up into his throat, the quaking of his stomach making it near impossible to stifle—

_Oh fucking fuck._

He hunched over, voiding his guts onto the grass. John was thankful that he was alone, at least, he thought he was alone.

“Goddamnit!” He yelped, wiping at his lips. “Knew I shouldn’t have downed the damn drink, sorry Rio!” He blinked, hearing his words echoing in his mind. He had just apologised for distressing his child. With a sigh, John readily accepted that this was the first of thousands of apologies to come.

There were people milling about as rush hour snuck upon him, silhouettes all blurring as his mind formed wild shapes and blinding colours. John’s left eye twitched, his shoulders slumped. He could feel the man’s presence before he could see him.

Raising to his full height, he wrapped both hands around himself and bit into his bottom lip.

“For Christ’s sake, John.”  
  


John stiffened.

“John, _Johnny!_” The voice called.

John couldn’t move, his feet were rooted to the ground. His lip began to tremble, his hands began to shake as he clutched at the soaked fabric tighter. He hastily buttoned it up, something he never did and fingered his red scarf.

“John, not again. What have you been drinking?”

John swatted away the hand before it had the chance to land on his quivering right shoulder.

He began to shuffle, ramming his hands deep into his coat pockets.

“Don’t fucking _touch_ me!”

“John?” The voice sounded bleary, inching closer and closer. “John, what the hell is all this?”

John was finally moving. He hightailed it in the other direction.

“John! You can’t keep fucking _running_ from me.”

_Fuck yeah I can._

“Bloody hell.. John, baby! What are we, five?”

John froze, crutches threatening to fall from his grasp. His mouth hung open, panting, as he slowly tilted his heavy head back.

“Johnny, baby, please- just, just _talk_ to me!”

“_Baby_.” He repeated, in a short breath.

His eyes were watery, blurring over the blonde silhouette.

“_Baby_.” John repeated, voice like stone, wrapping his arms around himself before stumbling backwards.

He took a final glance, a weak stare into those bleary blue eyes and John was hobbling… he didn’t know where. He slipped across the street, murky puddles lapping up his calves, his boot soaked and chains clinking as the crutches barely kept him aloft.

John pretended not to hear the constant calls of his name: First, actual first, middle and last. John found a secluded shelter and backed himself into the wall, throwing down his crutches and burying his face in his hands.  
  


The words _vodka, whiskey, champagne, tequila_, were blaring in his mind. In pink neon, blinking over and over as a shrill siren rang through his head.

**Blow.**

John’s silk jacket pockets felt so incredibly empty without his stash of cocaine, having stripped away the cigarettes and flask.

**Big C.**

His hands ruffled through them basking in the illusion, the _comfort_, that they were still there. His saviours: survival kit. The only thing that would get him through this.

**Line.**

John had contacts everywhere. It was West London for Christ’s sake, he could be baked out of his mind within the hour if he knew the right people.

**Ball.**

He sure as hell did.

**Snow.**

There was a whole rolodex of places, names beaming in bright lights that blinded him behind his eyes. Endless phone numbers, endless names… John was well aware of what he craved. It was far too easy for him to get it.

**Bump.**

_Bump? Coke baby, always coke baby._

He slammed his head back into the wall, over and over, adding insult to over stimulated, imaginative injury.

The words _white, white, white, _pulsed through his veins, lighting sparks across his skin, making his mouth water and his nose twitch. Bringing a hand up to his eyes, he rubbed at them profusely, barely biting back his screams of frustration and cowardice. His whole body was trembling, the neon whizzing about his head casting a ray of violent, dizzying spells. He fought to keep himself upright, slamming his head back into the wall and letting his cries of pain break free.

“White lines!” He ground out, voice shrill. “Fucking.. b-_blow_ away. Shit!”


	14. Take One Last Glimpse Into The Night. I’m Touching Close, I’m Holding Bright

Lights shone. Shots poured. Lights blared. Lines chopped. Lights burnt. Shots downed. Lights blinded. Flashing red and black, red and black. Surging in euphoria, higher and higher, he’s never coming down.

The stench of leather and extortion was rife, violently penetrating the sticky heat of sweaty bodies that filled the dance floor in a black blur. The sea of men roared. Drinks were poured and saliva was shared. Powder was huffed and skin was bared.

Spliff in hand, he was traipsing, falling, howling as he rode the waves. The destination was blinding, enticing, a pleasure he’d never even known. Hand down his own leathers, fumbling to have them ripped free.

He was on his knees, slick metal enclosed around both wrists. Stretching out, hissing at the light that doused his form in the devils red. Fingers pried. Skin stretched. He screamed, writhing and bucking wild. Hips cocked, nails raked across his sides. Hands clutched tight, bruising deep within the shadows.

He was slapped, choked, taken faster and deeper. The slap of slick skin on skin was violent, groans ripping from multiple throats, damp fingers abusing over stimulated flesh. He slammed his wrists into the wall, back arching, voice hitching, cock surging as he was filled. Over and over.

Juices rained down on him. Juices thrust deep inside him. Pretty face caressed and yanked from side to side. Lips bruised. Eye swollen. Begging for more, trembling with the immense want.

John’s body convulsed, the highs of orgasm so intense that he was crying: tongue desperate for another hot mouth to claim it. To be dominated, shamed, to be fucked within an inch of his life.

Another line and he was on all fours, whips dangling from all around him. Erect members dripping onto his drenched skin. He panted, mouth dry. Beads prodded. Beads filled. A rough hand on himself, tugging with no finesse. He was stretched, slapped, bruised and burning.

Lights shone. Metal clinked closed. Lights blared. Tawse pierced skin. Lights burnt. He was suspended. Lights blinded. Flashing red and black, red and black. Surging in euphoria, higher and higher, he’s never coming down.

  
***  
  


Awakening to a sea of loose limbs and rumpled bedsheets, John was well and truly on a freight train to the worst crash of his life. Having blacked out sometime shortly after his fourth cock of the night, face down as he was driven into his own mattress, his hair was ruffled; head pounding with pulsating beat after beat.

Groggily, he pushed himself up to take in his sights. His bedroom had been trashed, sheets sticky and condom wrappers _thank fuck for that_ littered his carpet. Deftly avoiding the huge body to his left, he hobbled out of the bed and clutched the wall as he slid into his connected bathroom.

He couldn’t even turn on the light. The, surely, afternoon sun was enough as it broke through his blinds. Squinting, he clung to his sink. John almost had a heart attack at seeing another figure naked, dripping, in his freaking bath tub. Who, once he had had a closer inspection and ignored the sudden surge of oxygen down south, was not alone.

He couldn’t count. The numbers hurt his head and bringing his hand up in front of his face to count on his fingers was far too demanding at whatever the hell the time was. _How many men? Women, wait no. N-no, no women. Women aren’t needed… there. Fuck._

John whirled back around so he faced the mirror again, keeping his weight off of his almost healed foot. His bloodshot eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in repulsion. Bringing a hand up he rubbed at them profusely, stopping in between movements to survey his body.

John screamed.

His skin was littered with bruises, fresh and sore. His backside had faint hand prints engraved into it which, when John made the idiotic mistake of running a finger over, made him hiss at the tenderness. It was then that the pain washed over his face, finally able to associate the bruise under his left eye. It was beginning to swell, still a ruby red that could rival the shade of his favourite _Dior_ lipstick.

Speaking of lips, leaning even closer to the mirror, they were bruised. Bruised deep. He could see the bite marks and ran his tongue across his lower lip, wincing at the blood that had dried and was beginning to crust over.

John hadn’t even realised that he was being spoken too until he felt a sudden surge in body heat. A man, through his one good eye, appeared to be blonde strutted straight out of his bathroom. His skin was a delectable tan, lightly muscled and his left arm was covered in ink. John had always liked tattoos but his slight needle phobia surely meant that he’d never be getting any or, at least, not for another couple decades. Maybe a tribute piece would be nice, someday.

His one non-swollen bleary eye shamelessly roamed the man’s butt as he retreated, beautifully round and perky before cursing the wasted opportunity of not catching sight of the situation up front.

He hadn’t heard a single word but what John could identify was that the men, two, three, wait no, four- _Sweet fucking Christ_\- were all bidding him a humble farewell amongst the whisper of retrieved clothing.

Which was incredibly weird in and of itself but, he figured, he was better off not questioning it.

“We’ll keep ya secret!” The guy doused in a leather jacket, studs and clingy jeans called in a thick northern accent that John couldn’t place.

“My.. what secret?”_ Too many secrets. Too many bloody secrets._

The man just looked down at John above his aviators, hand waving ambiguously and John followed it with his mouth parted and eye wide.

He glanced down at himself, the engorged stomach, his entire body on show. He was speechless, mouth working fast but no words were being formed.

The other man, the hot blonde, simply winked. His eyes sparkled as he finished dressing himself in a tight white vest and denim shorts, ones that perfectly moulded to his lightly muscled body. He smirked as John had to fight with himself to tear his lustful eyes away, settling on something on his window sill.

“Big day today, Johnny!”

“Yeah, ya best get a move on!”

Now feeling incredibly embarrassed John plopped himself back down onto his bed. He hissed and flopped onto his side, ass not being able to take any pressure. He yanked the sheets up above himself, acting as though they hadn’t already been privy to those forbidden extra inches of flesh. That and, privy to the protruding stomach that was finally beginning to really show.

“Is it, I mean.” He mumbles from his pillow, the realisation sneaking up on him. “Yeah, shit, it is.”

The four men shared looks, laughter and an overly camp embrace. John found himself burying his face back into his pillows, having caught a whiff of his sheets and coming to the immediate conclusion that it was all too much. Too stimulating.

“Oh, poor baby. He hasn’t a clue!” The guy who’s moustache would prove no match for Freddie Mercury bellowed, provoking further laughter from the rest of the group.

John was about ready to yell back when he bought his head up. The door had shut. They were letting themselves out. Well, they most certainly knew the way.

Scrambling to his knees, he pointedly ignored his semi as it brushed against his thigh. He flipped himself so he was facing his bedside table: littered in shot glasses and several burnt out cigarettes. He reached for his alarm clock- _14:23, huh. Not exactly an irregular occurrence_\- and desperately wracked his brain when—

“—Fucking hell, I’m _so_ late” John called, stumbling out of bed. “Nick’ll kill me!”

***  
  


He considered it a miracle that he brushed his teeth, added another several layers of hair product to his already crunchy mullet, shoved on a baggy shirt and trousers, yanked on a coat and was speeding through West London within half an hour. Already well aware that he had missed his cue.

They were already disappointed in him, John knew that. He acted as though it didn’t hurt but, oh well.

Pulling up to a screeching halt outside the familiar sky scraper of doom, John slid out of his golden Aston Martin and crutched his way up the steps. This time it was Roger to buzz him up, the momentary relief radiating through the speaker. John was thankful that (although he spent the entire thirteen floor ride up again bashing his head against the back of the lift) he felt much more at ease than the last time.

Perhaps it was the last of the cocaine he hadn’t realised was still pulsing through his twitching veins. Either that or he had taken a serious blow to the head that had knocked all senses from him last night. It was most likely the latter, shit.

  
***  
  


Keeping his head down, he tried with might to not let his detachment show or to vocalise it in an incredibly lewd, offensive way.

They had vocals now, a base layer of synths which meant the that he and Roger were about ready to work on percussion.

Roger though, he could see everything. From the shiner on his bottom lip, the flush in his face. John kept his sunglasses firmly in place the entire time which usually meant, to the other guys, that he was low tide crashing onto party beach. However this time, fingers tapping irritably atop of his thigh, he knew he was having anything but fun. Roger knew that. John was well aware that Nick did too, even probably suspecting something more sinister behind his shades.

He wasn’t even sure how it had happened but Nick had upped and yanked him from his seat, pulling him out the door to corner him in the corridor.

“The hell?”

Nick’s pulse was surging, the flames sparking atop of the sparkly surface. John was thankful that he had dyed his hair back to blonde, he was less intimidating that way although he knew better than to assume innocence and naivety from the keyboardist.

They spoke, harsh and blunt, for about twenty minutes. John barely biting back retorts and leaving in stupidly long silences when he had nothing plausible to say.

When Nick spoke, voice like stone, John could feel everything. Anything and everything. He felt his heart harden, crumble, patch itself together and finally, _finally_ shatter into a thousand tiny shards of piercing glass. Nick powered on and John tried desperately to cling to his tone. He failed, miserably, favouring the warning sirens and alarm bells that rang in his own head.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you _what_, Nicky? You’re going to have to be a little more specific.” John’s eyes hit the floor.

A soft, dexterous hand clutched at his chin to angle his face back down to Nick. John slumped, back braced against the wall, barely able to hold his gaze.

“John.”

He sputtered incoherence, idiocy, the whole lot. Nick perused him, cornering him, both knowing full well who was going to win this band battle.

“_Nigel!_” He boomed, arms folded across his navy sequin blazer.

John was well and truly caught like the deer who get ran over by the headlights, never mind just being seen. He engulfed a shaky breath, head hitting the wall hard. Staring up at the ceiling, he ran the words in his mouth.

Surprisingly, Nick delivered the blow for him.

“I know, John. I’ve known for a while.”  
  


“Known what? What do you mean you.. what do you know about me?” He panicked, biting into his lip so sharply that it bled.

Nick raised an eyebrow, dusty pink lips pouting. “About the _baby_, idiot.”

John was stunned into silence. It was a miracle that he wasn’t screaming but that didn’t stop him burying his face in Nick’s shoulder and bawling.

“You fucking... Christ! How the hell do you even know?!” He spat, more into Nick’s shoulder than anything. “I tried, tried so damn hard and you just.. mother _fucker_.”

He felt two hands clutch at him, massaging his back in small and circular motions as tears stained the satin. Nick held him nice and tight, being the rock John needed in that moment.

He remained in the embrace until his cries dulled to quickened breaths and finally a choked off hiccup. Reluctantly, John pulled away and kept his gaze firmly on the tile beneath his feet.

“Why did you not mention it to me before?”

John screwed his eyes shut, desperate to prevent another rainstorm.

“I’m not” Nick paused, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, “uh, _mad_ at you, if that’s what you’re so afraid of. What are you so afraid of?”

John’s head snapped up, stained with tear tracks. “_Everything_.” He rasped, full of shame.

His mouth dropped open as he felt the air closing in on him, turning and returning to choke him and end his suffering right in that very corridor.

“I t-thought that, uh” John hastily swiped at his eyes, “you would be—”

“—Well, I was incredibly surprised when I realised but that had more to do with the fact of you wanting to keep it. I honestly did not see that one coming.” Nick admitted, trailing off with a small chuckle. “And Charlie of all men… you really got _fucked_ up didn’t you baby brother?”  
  


John tried to laugh and found that he couldn’t. He bought his hand to his face, bruised lips beginning to chew a cuticle.

“You should also stop that.” Nick batted John’s hand away from his face. “John, Johnny, look at me. _Look_ at me.”

He didn’t budge.

“Nigel. Look at me or I’ll begin my interrogation into that black eye.” He gestured to John, surveying the settling bruise.

John slowly raised his gaze. Nick’s smile was warm, his eyes tinged with something he couldn’t quite identify. He simply held out both arms and John fell into step. He flung himself at Nick, gangly arms wrapping around his slender body in a comforting embrace.   
  


It was like coming home after a six month pilgrimage full of blaring guitar solos and crack. Wait. Back up.

“When did you, you know.. shit, when—”

Always one to know exactly where John’s (mostly sober) head was at, Nick eloquently finished his sentence: “When I found out you’re carrying _human life_.” He paused, letting it linger in the air with a chuckle, “That’ll take a long time to get used too, I’ll tell you that.”

John smiled. It was weak and didn’t reach his eyes but still, it was progress.

“I had noticed something was amiss months ago, we all did. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

“Still, when? What? How? Why? And the other question word. When?” John yelped.

“_Who_.” Nick enforced.

“That too.”

Nick delivered a single, heavy glance as the realisation hit him. As though someone had whacked his bass into the back of his head. Shit but did it hurt. 

“It was the hospital right? Ya found out at New Years?” John muttered, eyes finally focusing on Nick’s own, who simply nodded. “Sly fucker.”

“Are you calling me _sly_, Nerdy Nigel? I should be saying that too you, keeping me in the dark all this time.”

  
“Nerdy?”

“Naive. Narcissistic. Nauseating. _Neurotic_... They are the perfect summation of a certain _Tigger_ so, take your pick.”

_Neurotic? Now, did that sound interesting._

“Fair play.” He added they final word in a whisper, more into his hand than actually into the real world. “_Cunt_.”

  
“Such foul language from such an innocent looking, man-whore of a father. No child should be bought into the world hearing you run that pretty mouth.”

“Wait, what? Man-whore?” John snapped his head up, an adorable confusion atop his guise. “Shit, Nicky. Gonna need a swear jar!”

Both men broke out into fits of laughter, Nick’s bellow harmony with John’s cackle.

“A fuckin’ swear bucket.”

Nick continued: “A _crate_.” The laughter began to fizzle and John hiccuped. “I just wish that you had spoken up earlier. Christ, Johnny. How are you doing this alone?”

“I’m not alone. I’ve had Roger and Andy by my side, they’re... _always_ by my side.” The words just rolled off of his tongue, the latter he was no longer so sure off.

Nick let the lack of conviction in John’s voice slide. “Still, I just wish you had spoken to me about it beforehand. We’re supposed to be the best of friends... _brothers_. It’s not the sort of thing you can keep in the dark and well, that stomach, Nigel, it can’t be hidden forever.”

John looked down at himself and heaved out a hefty chuckle. “Well, you’ve got me there, Bates. I’ll need your help keeping it outta the press though, I’ve come real freaking close a couple times.”

“But of course, Nigel. You should not be alone like this, in your state. I won’t allow it.”

The ghost of something vaguely comforting painted John’s face. He bought his hand up and again had it swatted away before his teeth could sink in.

“Thank you, Nick, I really.. I—”

“—Don’t mention it. You never do anyway, greedy asshole.”

Nick had him there.

***

They were out in the corridor for near an hour, both now sat on the floor laughing and joking about everything from how idiotic John had been to keep himself hidden from Nick, why Nick had refrained so long from telling him he had always known and somehow now they were planning the big reveal.

“A pregnancy _photoshoot? _Seriously?! Isn’t that like, oh I don’t know, for women who are incredibly vain and conceited?”

John cut himself off at the raise of Nick’s brow. “Oh, har-har. Laugh at the incredibly _vain_ and _conceited_ omega who will let his big brother plan and execute his pregnancy photoshoot!” John was now laughing through his words, sounding so foreign as they rolled off of his tongue. “It better have an edge, nothin’ soft and floaty. I mean it, Nicky!”

Together they both sat there planning: the logistics and tactical manoeuvres. The ideas were bouncing off of each other perfectly, they were in such a melodic sync that John’s chest felt light and he knew that Rio definitely approved.

“Alright, alright. Keep your maternity underwear on.”

“Hey! I don’t even have any. Am I ‘sposed to have some?” John cocked his head. “I never even ‘eard of them.”  
  


“Have you read into Omega pregnancy at all?” Nick stated bluntly, knowing full well what John’s answer would be.

He shook his head. “It was just, just so hard to.. I don’t know. Hard to believe for so long. Does that even make sense? Like, the first time we played Brighton. When _Tel Aviv_ opened the curtains upon the incredible crowd of screaming fans, every teenage girl in Britain seemed to have her own teenage meltdown vaguely in time to its beat. It’s all so bloody _surreal_ and I... Christ Nick, I don’t think I really could _believe_ it until I saw it. Saw her. At the ultrasound. I have another booked for the end of March, hopefully then I can see her properly.”

“You found out the gender?”

John paused to lick his bottom lip. His eyes widened before the stupidly huge Nigel grin overtook him. He took a moment, rolling the words about his mouth. He felt incredibly stupid.

“Not uh, exactly. It was the position or sommet. The doctor said we would know for sure the next visit but he, they, both seemed so damn sure on a girl. Holy fuck, I’ve had it in my head for weeks now that I’m havin’ a _daughter_.”

There was a newfound softness in the keyboardist’s gaze. Something that his teased and over teased jet black mullet couldn’t take away from.

“I bet she’s a beauty.”

  
John had never answered back fast. “You fucking know it. My Rio, an absolute stunner.”

Laughter broke out, the keyboardist clutching his chest with mirth.

“Did you just.. _Rio?!_ Oh sweet Lord, Johnny. Don’t tell me you’re actually naming your child after a place, one that you’ve never even visited! That’s just.. oh my fucking God!” Nick was cackling, tears forming from behind his thick eyeliner.

Wrapping an arm around John’s neck, he was encouraged to let his head fall into the junction of where Nick’s satin navy collar fizzled out into his neck.

“N-no, I won’t. But for the remainder of the nine months, we are going by _Rio_.” John smirked, stretching out the name. “Don’t like it, tough!”

Nick’s laughter began to die down.

“You’re nowhere _near_ smart enough to come up with that on your own. Come on Nigel, out with it! Who gave you the—”

“—I can perfectly come to these ideas by myself, thank you very much.”

Nick hummed his disbelief, rolling his eyes so hard that they could see his brain. His brain which, to John at least, was shimmering with endless glitter and tied off with a lush satin bow. The glitter that would match his suits, it would change colour every day. He loved it, only wishing that he too could have some sparkle in his head.

“It was either Andy’s stroke of genius or you’re seeing an obstetrician with a serious Duran fetish.”

“Maybe not so much Doctor Adams but his receptionist. Boy, she was practically creamin’ herself when I gave her an autograph!” John broke off into a chuckle. Then, softer, “what are ya going to do with me, Nicky?”

“Buy you endless rounds of baby naming books and force you into lamaze classes.”

“La— what?”

“Seriously, Nigel?”

John couldn’t suppress his grin. “You poofter, I know what they are!”

“Are you sure?”

Nick had him there. Oh well.

“How many weeks along are you?”

John paused, trying to calculate and failing miserably. “It’s March first in a couple days so, uh, about twenty-ish?”

Nick just rolled his eyes. “So we have another _twenty-ish_ weeks to educate you and ensure that you can still hold a bass over that stomach.”  
  


“Hold a bass over my... Holy shit! I hadn’t even thought ‘bout that!”

John broke away, brown eyes landing back on Nick’s hazel as he held out a hand and helped John back into a standing position. He leant heavily against the wall, feeling a little shaky whilst he got his weight in the right place.

“Don’t look at me! You’re the bassist here, you’ll have to work somethin’ out.” Nick winked, knocking on Simon’s door.

The panic sunk in again as John watched Nick’s figure blur back into the nicotine fuelled, overworked and near ready to perspire, musical frenzy. It was then he realised that intense vocals, picking up speed and fumbling with different keys, were drifting down the hallway.

“That fatal kiss is all we need now, ain’t it, Rio?” A smile tugged at his lips before graduating into a full blown, much needed grin. “Indeed it is, you clever thing.”

Nick peered his head, a mish mash of dirty blonde fading into black, out of the door.

“You're already talking to it and everything! That’s absolutely _adorable!_” He mocked, eyes wide and beaming.

The embarrassment sunk in quick but John couldn’t bring himself to care, not one bit.

“Move your molasses, Taylor. Wait-” Nick held his hand up, black nails catching the light, “cover your eye.”

John fumbled for his sunglasses. “Thanks, big brother.”

***

He could hear Roger drumming on the table: the beat strong even if it was only one layer of intense sound. Andy was plucking away at his guitar strings, delivering fret after fret of pure power.

Slipping back on his sunglasses, he dived headfirst into the fray with a beautiful smile painting his lips and a sudden joy radiating from his stance. He kept his longline, oversized black jacket buttoned, shoving his hands inside the pockets as he rocked back and fourth to the beat.

He basked in Nick’s warm smile as he stood at his keyboards. John smirked to himself as the keyboardist added a distinct snare-like synth layer, horns and a blaring sound that seemed to resemble a bullet tearing through the air. John grinned even wider at being privy to that special little dance his big brother always did when he was well into the groove.

_Ah, the classic Nick bob. I’ve missed it._

“A chance to find a phoenix for the flame. A chance to die.” Andy joined in, two perfect sets of vocals; smooth and mystical contrasting abrasive and wretched, reaching a whole new octave.  
  


“But can we dance into the fire. That fatal kiss is all we need.”

Andy strutted over to him, guitar in hand and signalled to John as he smiled his own huge, crooked smile.

“C’mon Taylor, let us ‘ave it!”

“Dance into the Fire!” He sang not at all in time or in key. “Fuck Ands, what’s the next—”

“—The fatal sounds of _broken_ dreams.” Simon belted and John’s eyes widened.

The threesome rattled off the chorus, gaining in momentum. Gaining in clarity. Nobody could deny the hope that beamed from John, even though Simon’s words had struck a little closer to him than he wanted himself to admit. Dismissing the thought, a smile returned to his face and there was a glint of something special hidden not too deep in his concealed eyes. 

It was working. Whatever the hell he did, or more to the point didn’t do, was working. It would be baby steps, small and over calculated but at this rate; they’d be filming atop of the _Arc De Triomphe_ or the _Notre Dame_ in no time. And the _Eiffel Tower_, of course, John just couldn’t have his Paris fantasy without it.


	15. I Could Feel The Breeze Blowing Change, Blowing Through My Doorway

Now inching towards the five month mark: John’s March had so far been a whirlwind. He had been back and forth to the UK, setting up camp with Nick, finishing up Duran’s next single and searching for a film crew ready to make the music video. Simon and Nick had scoured locations and were now set on the Eiffel Tower. John couldn’t conceal his excitement when he had heard; cuddled up in his golden satin sheets back in New York with Roger and Andy on either side.

_A Taylor cinnamon roll._

He was finally rid of that fucking boot that had trapped his right foot since January. It felt strange to walk on but he was getting the hang of it.

But what had been the most incredible milestone of his month, only so far: _Power Station_ were set to release their album on the twenty-fifth, was his second ultrasound - in London this time. This time both Roger and Nick were with him and he was incredibly gracious for their support. He again was overcome by immense feelings so intense that he couldn’t draw his eyes away. His little bundle of joy was no longer so little although still looked like a sea horse. John could start to pick out features on his own and when he was told that he indeed was having a baby girl: his heart had swollen in his chest and he was crying oceans. Maybe enough tears were shed that Nick could get a cruise over.

All sorts of thoughts flowed through his mind. He wondered if she would grow to have his cut throat jawline and nimble, bass ready fingers. There was no doubt that she’d be undeniably tall; the genes practically confirmed that already.

Would she be a show girl or more timid such as himself? Would she even want a life in the spotlight? If she didn’t, if handling the life of rockstar wasn’t for his daughter, John was not yet so sure he could bid it all goodbye. Ultimately, when the time came, Duran would be forgotten. Right? They were losing popularity, the fan base were growing older and they were growing with them into all directions.

Maybe now was the time to step back from it all. Once _A View To A Kill_ premiers, there would be no stopping John from stepping back and focusing on himself for a couple of years.

Who was he kidding? The last thing he wanted to focus on would be himself. But Rio though, she was shining. Shining bright, getting ready to show him all she can.  
  


***  
  


The _Power Station_ album release had been a huge success. The album was already gaining credibility, the likes of _Some Like It Hot_ already making it into the charts had John grinning from ear to ear. He couldn’t believe his luck upon hearing _Get It On_ playing through the stereo in his limousine for the first time. Both he and Andy had shared a look, Andy and Robert shared a congratulatory shot. Tony was beaming as he threw an arm around John and pulled him into an embrace.

“I can’t bloody wait to see Bang A Gong on TOTP back home!” 

  
Robert cocked his head, with a chuckle. He knew full well what John had meant. “It’s _Get It On_, Johnny.”   
  


“Shit, yeah. It’s the, isn’t that the uh, you know, _American_ title or something? We’ve been here so bloody long that I keep gettin’ that shite confused.”

  
Both Robert and Tony nodded their approval. Andy raised his near empty beer bottle.

John just wished that Roger could be here. He had played for this album and was indeed a huge part to his sound. John still felt an immense guilt. They were sharing Roger: _Power Station _and _Arcadia_. And, in Roger’s own words, he truly felt as though _he’s got one leg on one and one leg on the other._

“Like he’s got _elastic bollocks_. Typical Rog.” John laughed, although it didn’t last long, into Tony’s strong shoulder.

“Who’s got what now?” Robert bellowed, a little tipsy.

“I ‘eard Rog and bollocks. Not in that order.” Andy stated, never the suave one.

John didn’t answer. He replayed Roger’s words over and over and felt his head spin.

Drinks had been poured around him all night, countless tempters had all but downed the shots for him. They all made offerings and John had just stood there, half wondering if they would genuflect before him so that he would accept their offering - the other half of him wondered how in holy hell would he get through the night without a single drink.

What would the press say? It was completely unlike him. He hadn’t been promoted to ‘The Wildest Of The Wild Boys’ like Andy had whilst being in the US, which still surprised and even hurt him a little, but a completely sober and alert John _fucking_ Taylor seemed completely out of the question. Besides, no one would be buying it anyway.

He remembered the tequila he had downed when Robert wasn’t looking. He hadn’t refused a smoke nor a line. However, John didn’t really feel a high. He was starting to wonder why he hadn’t fallen victim to another night of blazing euphoria and came to the immediate conclusion: he had a new high, it would come naturally. A much more time consuming high that was forcing him to grow up and get a new perspective on his world.

John wasn’t seeing his fame in such distinct black and white anymore. He only hoped, maybe only the cocaine hoped, he would be seeing the world in all the colours of those models down in Antigua once the album hit the top ten. When Roger was back for a press junket. When _Power Station_ broke it, in a big way, in the UK. Nick being proud of hearing his baby brother’s pounding bass on _BBC_ Radio One_, _maybe even beside _Arcadia_ later in the year. When _Power Station_ would go on tour.

But more importantly, John noted with confidence, that he would be cherishing the visions of his world that would surely arrive when she was finally born. Her light; her colour palette. It would surely expand far beyond his own beloved black and white with red hues for optimum danger.

  
***  
  


John was back in England with the sole purpose of budgeting the next video. They had gotten the green light (back to _Godley & Creme_ like the good ole perverse days with _Girls On Film_) and the soundtrack was almost complete.

It had startled him so much that John had dropped his fork full of spaghetti into his lap, tomato sauce painting his cream trousers.

  
“You’re starvin’ me daughter ya’know?” Nick was howling at the pissed expression as John hurriedly wiped at his crotch.

John readily agreed, as long as Nick dyed his hair back to blonde for it. Nick wouldn’t let him backtrack on his offer even when the doubts began to flood his mind back in his bed later that night. John lay awake, restless, thinking over Nick’s words again and again. He knew he would have to pluck up the courage and do what was right. Nick wanted him and John would be there.

_Duran Duran _were hanging by multiple creative-difference, spotlight sharing threads enough as it is. He would stop at nothing to be included. Even though this wasn’t Duran per se. He was thankful, truly, although the prospect of another unscheduled meeting with you know who did scare him shitless.

  
***  
  


John scrambled to the set, ducking past the crew and trying to immerse himself in the crowd.

“If he catches me, Nick’ll be dead.” He muttered, scratching his nose. “Fucking dead.”

He caught up with Nick pretty quick, the stench of all the excess hairspray lured him to his flame. John was the moth to Nick’s gothic, intoxicating flame. He had seen clips of the _Election Day_ video and was relieved Nick hadn’t asked him to feature in it. If John was honest with himself, which lately he realised he really had to be, Nick’s look was scaring him a little. John thanked no-one in particular that he had held up his end of the bargain: bright blonde hair now glimmering in the poor studio light.

  
John still couldn’t believe that they had managed to coerce _Grace Jones _to feature on the track. Now that, goddamnit, he was insanely jealous of.

  
_We do her a bloody Bond theme and they get that sexy voice in return, hot damn!_

“It’s just a single scene, right? As you said?”

Although Nick found it incredibly idiotic, he loved John too much to upset him and promised his scene would be over quick and he could have security help him scurry out the backdoor.

“So, what am I doing again? Just hold this and smile like a twat?”

“Just do what you do best: stand there like a pretty twat. You’re _coming out_ the closet, too.”

“_What!_” John perked up, a flush of embarrassment coating his cheeks.

Nick just laughed, low and soft. He crooked a finger, the black nail polish glinting in the candlelight. John followed, almost in a trance as Nick lured him closer and closer. Further and further from the brightness of the outside world and thrusting him deep into _Arcadia_: the gothic fantasy that was once both Nick’s and John’s deepest desire.

  
Nick and Nigel. Whatever.

Upon first hearing the band’s actual name and having prototype album art thrown in his face by Andy back in the states, John had shed a tear at the nostalgia. All the memories, the torture he, no, _Nigel_ had put himself through all those years ago. Together he and Nicholas had battled for weeks to come up with the perfect band name: ‘Arcadia’ being one of the favourites on his roster.

It was still incredibly weird to hear it and see it plastered all over his mind. As though Nick was trying to delve deep into John’s subconscious to uncover Nigel. To penetrate through the safe that had locked all those precious memories of the two of them, all those precious years ago, away.

_Careless Memories?_

John was finally ready to admit that even without Nick at his side, he was happy. Even without Nick’s hand’s on his waist or resting head on his chest. He felt a sudden pang at the feel of those lips, of course John would never forget. They had both been wearing the same shade of lipstick: ruby red lips had shyly touched; smeared and sparked something deeper between them. It was more than friendship, their bond was far too deep to be broken. A young, shy and impressionable Nigel had loved Nicholas Bates from day one and John was only thankful that Nick still wanted him to be a part of his project, even if it was only for a brief two-second cameo. How could John have declined?

_Yeah, Careless Memories. Flower tossing and all._

Nick calling to him, the clouds of his day dream parted and John took his cue. He listened carefully, taking a hold of the scroll - _the_ _contract - _and he slid behind the door.

The makeup artist finished him off, adding a hint of blush to his cheeks so the low orange light wouldn’t wash out his pale complexion.

“Still gorgeous. Even with that stomach.” She rasped, eyes firmly on John’s own as they widened.

He couldn’t think of anything to say so he just smiled, grabbing her face and angling her even closer towards him.

He flashed her an incredible dream boat smile and, impossibly, she melted. John couldn’t deny that knowing he could still make women weak at the knees in his current state was a relief. Maybe he could retain his sex-symbol status even as a father. _Didn’t women like men who could handle babies more?_

  
***  
  


John had pretty much been tucked under the arm of one security guard and bulldozed (until Nick yelled “be careful, _EMI_ has invested far too much in him for you to ruin him now!” and John had flipped him off with a laugh) bulldozed him out of the studio. As far as John was aware, he hadn’t been spotted by anyone significant whilst shooting.

Although he couldn’t help but be tormented by his thoughts. _What if he had seen me? What if he hates the shot? Does he even know I was here? Did Nick tell him he asked me to feature?_

_Did they shoot above the waist? They better have shot above the bloody breasts!_

Knowing Simon would be wrapped up with shooting for another three hours or so, Nick met John back at their recording studio.

Hovering at the sound deck, he gave John a proper listen to _The Flame._

_ **Straight to the heart,** _

_ **Straight for this precious shining.**_

_ **How do you dare?** _

_ **Step into my flame.** _

John had a huge dopey smile painting his face throughout the entirety of the track and was drumming along with the beat. Nick knew what he was doing and a pang of guilt filled him: John was marking out where the bass notes should be. Where Roger and John should be.

“I still cannot believe that look! What were you even thinking? Cheeky sod.” Nick stated, when the line in which John would come out of the closet played.

** _Never give me any chance,_ **

** _To wander back from this innocence._ **

Nick raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession, with a huge smile that exposed his teeth in lieu of what John had improvised earlier.

What was John wandering into too? Back to Duran? Wasn’t that what the contract had meant? Would there even still be a _Duran Duran_ for him to return too? Would Nick even still want him? Would he still even want… Simon?

“Cheeky sod indeed.” John grinned, bringing his second pickle to his mouth.

“I’m not supposed to be _laughing_ in that video! It’ll ruin the aesthetic.”

John cocked his head. “But you did. Looks as though I have succeeded in ruining another Rhodes’ avant-guard masterpiece! Oh, how will we both continue to bloody _live?_” He exclaimed, gesturing wildly, far too over dramatic that perhaps he could rival Simon’s own nerdy and awkward acting.

“You should be an actor. That’s an Oscar-worthy performance right there.” Nick deadpanned.  
  


“Blow me! I can act just fine, I’ll have you know.”

Who was John kidding? There was no way he was an actor. Or…

Oh shit yeah: _Timeslip._ A single episode, a complete flop. John shook his head, dismissing the thought.

“_Timeslip_?”

John’s mouth dropped open. “H-how, fuck, how did you even… when did I even _tell_ you about that?!”

Nick didn’t answer. He raised a jet black eyebrow and was making that face he would before taking a drag of his cigarette, all cool and collected.

John thought it incredibly sweet that Nick no longer smoked around him.

“I’m going to be on _Miami Vice_ too so suck on that. A chance to thoroughly redeem meself.”

Nick barked out his laughter, it was anything but graceful for once.

“Fuck you, Nicky!” He joined in. Both men didn’t believe a word he had said.

The laughter began to subside.

“Thanks for these, Nick.” He licked his lips, the juice having stained them, and sighed at the taste. “I’ll always prefer the ones here than in the US. It’s all processed bollocks over there, you know?”

Nick sat across from him, lips quirking up. “Typical Johnny. Not even _pickles_ are safe from his wrath!” Then, lighter: “No John, I don’t. I’ve never been a pickle fan and you know that!”

“Yeah Bates, I do.”

“Besides, I learnt the hard way. Now I’ll always carry a jar with me and have at least two awaiting your gracious return to my place.” He smirked as John bit into his third pickle.

“Pregnancy cravings are fuckin’ weird. Like, I have no idea what _I_ want but Rio.. she uh, she’ll just _scream_ for something and she’ll get it.” John admitted, a slight tinge of embarrassment was evident in his voice.

Nick smirked even harder at that, barely biting back his retort.

“Sound familiar?” He winked.

“_Andy_?” John sounded coy, pretty sure Nick hadn’t meant the guitarist.

“Him too.” John nodded his approval with a small grin, “you better get that child of yours under control, Nigel. At this rate she will be calling the shots and ordering you both— never mind, continue to let her have her way.” Nick broke off chuckling, clutching the lapels of his rich, pinstripe noir suit jacket.

John pouted as he licked the savoured pickle juice from his fingers. He took his time, devouring each digit. He pointedly ignored the bubbling laughter he was provoking from the keyboardist but couldn’t deny how good it made him feel.

Nick’s laugh was absolutely precious and John was honoured to be privy to such a private show.


	16. I Can’t Say No More, Baby Dance With Me

John lay awake, insomnia having claimed his tired soul for yet another restless night. Listening to the light April breeze as it brushed against the blinds, he yawned. He propped himself up: naked limbs sprawled out atop the huge bed; crumpling the rich; golden satin sheets. He fisted at them, knocking his head backwards onto the headboard with a dull thud.

The same narrative had overtaken enough of his nights that he knew, purely by the sounds, what the time roughly was. Sure, his party days were far from over but he’d be fooling nobody if he stated that he was still one hundred and ten percent positive on backing himself fulfilling that lifestyle. He’d had a good, coke-fuelled, run.

At this moment, the lull told him that no more limousines would be passing by that night and he was too high up for any street illuminations to bleed through the thick, velvet curtains.

“Almost 04:00, time for the last stragglers,” the bassist paused, rubbing at his eyes, “to head.. back for drinks.. home.” _Home_. “Whatever.”

He fought the urge to dwell deeper into the thoughts. Being back in his apartment in London, having Simon stay for the night and he’d be hoisted up into those strong arms and thrown down, animalistic, atop of his own bed and they’d be wresting, clothes violently flung to the floor: the goal for Simon to end up on top to swiftly, lovingly enter—

Again, John’s head collided with the wall - _Wild Boys_ style. The mullet was mussed, greasy, strands falling into his eyes. He noted that first thing in the morning, well no, _after_ he finished voiding the admittedly few contents of his stomach: he should wash it. He couldn’t remember when he had actually taken the time to properly wash his hair; the lingering stench of hairspray made him scrunch his nose in distaste.

  
It was all so... _crunchy_ now.

Tipping his head back, his eyes slipped shut before he groaned; lurching forward with a sudden bolt of pain. He went into panic mode, ready to lash out as he felt it again thrash at him.

It was duller, the second time. Approaching more of a sharp twang than a sharp jolt. John stabled his quickened breaths, clammy hands running across his naked arms. He was trembling, bodily, as his arms dropped lower. Subconsciously, or maybe consciously, he didn’t stop to dwell upon it, a huge palm settled itself atop his stomach. 

He felt uncomfortable again, this time his chocolate brown eyes shot open at the sudden movement. They beamed, already welling up.

“Sweet fucking Jesus.” John voice cracked, rubbing small circles across his chest.

She tapped, knocked, then kicked. Calling him, beckoning him to feel her; to relish the feeling that she was here and _moving_. Most definitely alive and kicking.

“Oh Rio, Rio.” It was shaky, small and lyrical, “you really _are_ a dancer.”

John’s brows furrowed, replaying what he had just uttered in his mind. He couldn’t help but bark out a snicker, he figured he’d never be the sort of father to talk to his unborn child like that but now... countless thoughts of playing to her, serenading her, were running through his mind.

He only hoped that she’d love a bass player. The tremors, the pulsing notes. The execution of power from such a big beat.

John must have been crying out louder than he thought as his bleary eyes caught the light that forced itself through the door to his suite. Clambering to his feet, he hunted for his boxers and headed to the door; huge hands carefully massaging his stomach to comfort her.

He hissed at the lights in the living space, searching for who had turned them on. Heading straight for Roger’s room, eyes still watery, he burst in to find him tossing and turning: another victim to the freezing dead of night.

“John? Is everything—” Roger croaked, cutting himself off at John’s gigantic smile, radiating warmth.

“Shit, I didn’t mean too wake you but uh, you just have too.. you know, Rog, uh.” He trailed off, the realisation hitting him of his excitement and a sudden need to keep Roger awake to feel his… _stomach_. “Christ.” John heaved out his laughter, like bells, throwing his head back as he did so.

“The fuck are ya doin’ up?” A thick northern accent boomed from the doorway.

Andy, hair ruffled and pouting as his dressing gown hung open to expose his chest, strutted in. He regarded John, “at least you have boxers on this time. Gave us a bloody eyeful the other week.”

“And who’s fault is that, my dear?” He smirked, crossing his arms.

Andy didn’t answer.

John clambered onto Roger’s bed who immediately scurried to one side. John sighed, the delectable satin felt like heaven on his naked skin.

“She’s kicking! At least, I think she’s kicking. Whatever. Rio has her _own_ drum beat!” He stammered out, tears threatening you fall again. 

“The hell is she.. _kicking_?!” Andy recited, turning to Roger as both pairs of eyes widened comically in unison. “Wait, Rio? _Tigger_, did you seriously call her.. fucking _Rio_?”

All three Taylors broke out into a laughing fit, John swiping the tears from his eyes as his chest shook with mirth.

“Yeah, piss off. She’s Rio and she’s kicking.”

“You’re nowhere near smart enough to come up with something like that on your own, Johnny.” Roger regarded him, eyes roaming John’s near stark naked form. “Who’s idea was it?”

John was right, he was sure to be ripped apart but funnily enough: he couldn’t care less.

John deflated, muttering. “The doctor’s.”

Roger and Andy laughed harder, Andy slapping his knee the way John would when he was cackling and trying to stop himself before he gave himself the hiccups.

“Well, I suppose we’re doin’ this thing then.”

“Yes, you indeed are. C’mon Ands, _assault_ me. Make me your bitch!”

Andy met the perverse look in John’s eyes, his mega-watt smile and, rolling his own light eyes, decided to give John what he apparently really wanted.

Andy slipped in beside John, who now took up the middle of Roger’s king size bed. Both men placed a hand, Roger’s supportive and strong contrasting well against Andy’s slender and slick, onto John. He moaned, then squealed as Rio took to the stage again, her own drumbeat vibrating through, unmistakable.

“Blimey.” Andy muttered, leaning closer. “How does it feel?”

John was giggling, eyes wide and even sparkling. “It’s the weirdest fuckin’ thing, man. It just, ugh. I can’t even… describe how.. Christ. Ands, it feels amazing!”  
  


_He felt like a school boy who had just learnt about something vaguely over-stimulating for the first time. John wanted to say the example was the way his emotions had washed over him the first time he had been privy to the nude female anatomy in his biology text books however, if anything, he had felt this excitement (arousal?) for the first time when flipping page after page of fighter jets, tanks and weaponry. Then, more often than not, with Nick: sharing clothes; failing miserably at applying makeup and parading about the murky streets of Birmingham in a woman’s blouse, scarf and fire-engine red lips. Plus a delightful pasty pink blusher, he could never skip it; Nick simply wouldn’t have allowed him to skip it. And the eyeliner. Always lots of eyeliner._

_He had always been a very peculiar little oddball, if he said so himself: Nigel._

“Don’t make me cry for your knocked up ass now, Johnny!” Andy joked, hastily wiping at his face. Then, to immediately lift the mood: “Typical Le Bon, huh? Never does what’s rehearsed.”

Despite himself and the momentary ice that had frozen over out of nowhere, John sniggered although he wasn’t sure if Andy had stated those words in a particularly nice fashion.

Roger’s tone spoke of disbelief, John grinned again.“I can’t believe that two of us will actually have a child.”

  
“What’d ya mean, Froggy?” John motioned to Andy, “he already has—oh.”

_Roger meant the product of two Duran’s, the incest, didn’t he._

  
“Tally-ho!” John let out in a breath.

_Maybe this child would love to be parading about the filthy streets in the dead of night, holding a perfectly made up face high and not giving two fucks about who would frown upon them. Or maybe not. John hoped his little bundle of joy would inherit Nick’s makeup skills as opposed to his own: they would be doing them both a favour, there. And, not that he saw it as a bad thing, maybe not inherit his big brother’s love for all the sequins and sparkle. It could get very messy and John was already a very disorganised man._

“I _am_ still a tot and Tracey wants more kids.”

All three Taylors laughed in unison, bringing John back to reality. Andy was obviously not at all ashamed in his comment.

_Hopefully, they would inherit John’s love for fashion: male and female. Tight fitting and flowy. Leather and chiffon. Punk and angelic. _

“So is John.”  
  


_I’m what?_

“Precisely.”

_Oh right, still a child. Focus._

“_Twits_.” John stated, feigning being offended.

Turning to Roger, he raised an eyebrow and delivered his best front page pout. Roger just chuckled again, at the prospect of John having confirmed his point.

“What ‘bout you?” Andy crawled up to Roger. “You and Gio see yourselves with kids someday?”

Roger nodded as a huge smile painted his beautiful face, eyes sparkling. Andy and John shared a look.

“Are you keeping sommet from us, _Froggie_?”

Roger slowly turned his head up to the smirk on John’s lips. “Call me that again and—”

“—Are you makin’ _babies_ and not telling us?” He waggled his eyebrows, leaning down into Roger’s space, who giggled. “He is! He’s broody!”

“What’ya talking ‘bout, _Tigger?!_ He’s here with you right now!” Andy, feigning innocence, knocked into John’s shoulder. “I don’t think he’d enjoy that very much, mate.”

Sniggers erupted again.

“What are ya talking about, Ands? You know he loves my ass!”

  
John was howling, acting as though he hadn’t been the one who had crawled into his drummer’s bed with the intention of having Roger feel him up. With the intention of staying there.

“Sure, Johnny. How could anyone keep themselves _outta_ there!” Roger blushed at Andy’s words.

“Watch it!” John’s voice was light, “my backdoor isn’t just, uh… _open!_ Wait, shit!”

“It’s open to sexually precocious frontmen though!”

“_Wanker!_” John slapped the back of Andy’s head. It was only light but he acted as though it hurt, provoking more giggles from John.

“You cannot deny it, though, can you Johnny?”

John turned back to Roger, smirking, “who’s side are _you_ on, Little Frog?”

Perhaps it was the first time Roger wasn’t completely one hundred percent a democrat as he found his voice. “Not yours, you asshole!”

John completely missed the meaning. It was much deeper than anything he could’ve imagined... at this point.

“Yeah, _Frog-gie_,” he let it linger. “I can bloody well tell!” John couldn’t hide his smile, placing his hands back on his stomach.

Neither man could stifle their laughter as it again bubbled at the surface.

_Maybe his child would be forever embarrassed at the thought of their father parading about in women’s clothes, more makeup than was strictly necessary and half of a BDSM warehouse coating his pasty skin._

John pouted, dismissing the thought. Coming back to his senses, he let himself be enrapt in the silence.

John was incredibly thankful for the surprisingly easy going nature. He felt as though he was becoming more open about himself, his situation, and he couldn’t hide the excitement at the prospect of not being the only soon to be father in the group. Assuming, that was indeed what Roger had meant.

Roger, who didn’t like the spotlight on him, had settled back down into the pillows. John leant towards him and ran his hand through Roger’s jay black hair, ruffling it with a little giggle. Roger just pouted, leaning into the embrace and causing John to laugh louder.

“Best get you some condoms, Rog.”

“Like _you’re_ one to talk, Johnny!” Andy rasped.

John, with a pout, eyed him.

“Even know how they work?” Andy gave a lop-sided grin.

John again pouted. He gave an unceremonious middle finger and found himself impossibly trying not to laugh.

“It’s clearly not his responsibility.” Roger whispered and John had to do a double take.

The three of them were practically convulsing with laughter. Now wasn’t the time, nor could he form a light-hearted retaliation, against him being on the bottom.

He did like to switch but with Simon… well, he’d be on his knees faster than either man could sing ‘This is Planet Earth.’ That and, faster than Simon could take a single breath. His omega would be ready, waiting, dripping in anticipation knowing full well that he would be relinquishing control.

Oh yeah, current situation. Three near fully nude band mates sharing a bed and discussing safe sex. The usual.

Better than all five of them being crammed into a teeny tiny bathroom, trying to not see anything they may regret. Not that John ever really regretted it, remember?

Minutes passed in near silence. John lay still, just listening to the other Taylors and their heartbeats. He listened to his child, who’s own rhythm was thrumming wild through his veins. He couldn’t help but smile brighter as he felt a kick again, Andy’s chuckle confirming to him that no, it wasn’t a dream. This was far from it. And here they were, freaking _rockstars_, lying awake at 04:30 with tender hands caressing his engorged stomach, the innie that was now somewhat an outie.

That prospect made John both want to hurl and cry (not the belly button part, although he did find that strange too) the three Taylors embracing the sound of his child’s throbbing heart. Thankfully, he was through with his tears and his stomach felt, if anything, for the first time: stable. As if his Rio’s movements were the only thing that could ground him, to remind him of the next and biggest step he would be taking in life.

Rio was a dancer. John couldn’t wait to find her on the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had this chapter written and queued here for a couple weeks. It’s probably my most favourite scene for this fic and I hope this one goes down well. 💘


	17. Hold Back Now, Friends Of Mine

The sacred tape was flown across the Atlantic, wrapped over and over, as though if it fell into the wrong hands it would be the end of the world. If this tape held more than the theme tune and some actual secrets to the universe; the band would be guaranteed top billing through endless Bond-esque shady deals: women trying to seduce them and pry for information; matter of life and death situations that would probably involve rope and guns to the head.

But this was the real world. They’d have their chance to immerse themselves in Ian Fleming’s head soon, they had to hear the track first.

Andy was fuming. He wound the tape over and over, ignoring Roger’s warning of wearing it out and them all forgetting what notes and accents they hit.

He was fuming over the lack of guitar. As was John. The two of them appeared buried, mercilessly plunged deep beneath Nick’s synths and Roger’s powerful drumbeat. He had immediately picked up on Andy’s warning siren and Roger just kept quiet; hiding any and all emotion that he experienced with the track.

Things exploded pretty quick. Both Andy and John were raging over the the damn thing. Andy tried to pull it apart, knowing full well why so little of the guitar sections had been heard.

“They’re fuckin’ _mad_ at us, right? C’mon Rog, that’s it ain’t it? Mad we left them and that the albums doing great.” He spat, before taking a deep swing of his _Budweiser_.

“N-no, that can’t be it. They know better than that.” Roger muttered, eyes landing on John and looking for support.

The fight bled out of John in an instant. A wave of tiredness crashing over him, he plonked himself down onto the plush living room sofa. He let his head fall into his hands, running them through his over grown hair. He winced as he yanked out a strand or two, before letting them flutter to the floor.

John had cut down to about three cigarettes a day, though not every day: he prided himself on his off days and was determined to make it two. He lit his cancer stick, head lolling back into the pillows as the nicotine swirled about his head. That relaxed him some, he figured it was better that then both he and Andy cutting lines out of blinking rage for a three day, guns blazing rave over this song.

John couldn’t deny it: he was bitterly disappointed over the lack of both bass and guitars. Although he knew he hadn’t been the most agreeable or approachable throughout the entirety of the song’s production. He was already aware of the delay in bass but he did feel for Andy. Although he hoped, prayed to the divinity who was sure to turn him away at heavens door (remember?) that when Andy was delivered his character’s background for the video he would perk back up.

At some point in John’s wallowing, the guitarist had upped and sauntered out. The tape had been ripped from the stereo and now lay abandoned by John’s feet atop of the coffee table. Andy had taken his guitar with him, the other two Taylors clung to the harsh strum that seemed to emphasise all he was feeling as it rung through the penthouse.

Roger sat down beside John on the sofa, resting his head in his hand as he turned to face him. John raised his head and shuffled to get comfortable.  
  


“How are you both feeling today, Johnny?”

John smiled, coming to bring a hand atop of his stomach. He might as well be honest, that’s what Roger would want to hear.

“_Shattered_. All this travelling, muscles ache that I didn’t even know I freakin’ ’ad!” He fixed his chocolate browns on Roger’s own although Roger looked much more awake than John.

“Is there anything I can do for you? You want anything?” Roger was climbing out of his seat.

John was about to open his mouth but was silenced as Roger read his mind, already half way to their mini fridge. He returned moments later with water and pickles. _Goddamn_ _pickles_, John perked up.

He chuckled eyeing the jar. “Thanks, Rog.”

“It’s a pretty strange craving, if you ask me.” He stated, flopping back onto the sofa besides John. Roger laughed at the glimmer in John’s eyes, how the tiredness had just seemed to evaporate.

“I wouldn’t,” he paused to lick his fingers, “know ‘bout that. I’m just.. mmm, that’s the shit!”

John reached for pickle number two. “I’m thankful it’s not like… uh, oh I don’t know, something _weirder_? Something that would make others gag?”

The sly look on the drummers face told John that he had just walked into a trap. Not that he knew what the trap was.

“Your very existence is enough to make some… _gag_.” Roger stated, voice unusually confident and John’s mouth hung open. “And not just the ladies.”

John was laughing so hard that tears were forming and now his stomach hurt. About fifteen different dirty scenarios, quickly arranged in order of deflowering the virgins to ruthless strap on’s and vibrating butt plugs formed in his head.

_Solid Gold. Oh my god, what’s this?!_

“Jesus Froggie,you’re gonna _kill_ me!”

Roger smirked.

John wouldn’t dare to admit it but recently, more often than not, if he could force himself to sleep he would be bombarded with erotic dream after dream. They were growing stranger, more wild and clear. It was as though he could see everything, touch every precious inch of skin that was so lustfully available in front of him. Behind him. All around him. Sometimes there was only one man, sometimes three or four. Sometimes their faces would be a blur and other times, times he couldn’t shake from his mind no matter how hard he tried, he knew _exactly_ who was stood before him.

His hormones were surely driving him into madness, his own orgasms left him rocking well into the night, quaking in nothing but desperation and shame. He was finding it harder and harder to keep those.. ahem, _urges_, he supposed he could still call them, at bay. For his and his daughter’s sake.

He knew Roger would never judge him but he was also pretty sure that this was a new level of intimacy that the drummer wouldn’t want to breech.

  
  


Wait, what was he even thinking? It was Roger for Christ’s sake. Roger, who has the most beautiful smile to brighten up the most beautiful of faces. His eyes sparkle, his cheekbones are delightfully cut and profound. He’s so open, wearing his heart on his sleeve.

  
An incredibly talented musician, who only deserves the best.

There he sat mere inches from John, hair ruffled, shirt half hanging out of his trousers and staring fondly at him.

He must have said something, tongue diving down to lick at his bottom lip. If he had, John hadn’t heard anything.

It was far too late until John realised what he was doing. How he had somehow crept even closer, the space between them so small that it might not even exist. He had leant in, lips parted and gaze averted, just hovering: waiting. Waiting, full of tension not that he could define what type.

He couldn’t see Roger’s face nor could he find the strength to pull back and speak. He stood stock still, breath hitching as he could feel the warmth of the other man. How his scent filled John’s nostrils, how his very presence was visibly affecting him.

John had gotten close countless times before. He had always blamed the alcohol swirling violently through his system and the drugs clogging his better vision. But he didn’t have that anymore. Only the single lit cigarette as, like Nick, Roger now also refrained from smoking in his presence.

It dawned on John far too late that he had brushed his cheek up against Roger’s own, his hair pushing up against the smooth skin. His lips had caressed his cheeks but he hadn’t dared to delve any lower, those mere millimetres felt like a mile. He shouldn’t cross that mile, he couldn’t do that to them no matter how much he may have wanted too.

The mile was crossed and the fire was ignited within him, lips aflame as they moulded perfectly into Roger’s own. The kiss was slow, breathy, lips caressing every inch. John slowly broke away, both hands resting against Roger’s cheeks to perfectly frame his face.

“J-_John_. Johnny, please,” Roger licked the moisture from his lips. “Don’t.”

Roger’s deft hands wrapped around his arms and pried them from his own face. John couldn’t even deny himself the sudden impulse. It had been years of the perfect percussion and not only onstage.

“Johnny, I,” John couldn’t look at him. “I.. uh.” His voice trailed off.

John had no clue how or when but there he now lay, alone, biting his bottom lip and overcome with embarrassment. It was almost as though he could still feel those plush lips on his own, the warmth of them had been so incredibly stimulating that it was driving John further from reason. He found it increasingly more frustrating that he couldn’t control his urges, his body was thinking for itself and leaving his confused little head too far behind.

He couldn’t fathom anything Roger had said. He had only caught the glint in his eye as he had whispered something that was surely an apology, the seemingly unnecessary reminder that he had a loving wife at home.

John ground his head into the pillows as a single, hot tear rolled down his burning cheek. This broke way for more, coming in streams then torrents: again cursing his lack of bodily control. He felt sick and perverted all at once, wiping at his face not that the tears would stop.

He lay there motionless for however long, only the hasty rise and fall of his chest was the tell that he was still breathing. He forced himself into a slumber, eyes raw and irritated, without changing his clothes or putting out his cigarette.

He let it fall, catching the tail end of his satin jacket as he did so. It caught a spark, the sudden light enough of a distraction to pull him from his inner torture. Hurriedly, he dabbed at the tail end and swore. The burn mark wasn’t huge but his jacket was surely not they only thing he had ruined tonight.


	18. Had To Learn The Hard Way, Love Is Not What It Seems

John awoke to ringing in his ears, a blaring guitar riff and a sea of broken glass, amber liquid coating the floor and the remnants of precious white powder staring at him in the face. Laughing, taunting. He hadn’t moved from the following night. He couldn’t piece together how he had gotten the bottles then smashed them all around his feet.

Something within him snapped and he bolted upright. His head swam as he rubbed the back of it, wincing. He changed a glance down, slow and cautious. No, no glass was in him. No glass had penetrated his scarred skin. He breathed a huge, shaky sigh of relief as he hurled his weight; rising to his feet.

Deftly avoiding the glass that littered the ground, he hopped over the mess and traipsed back towards his bedroom, the nagging of his wearisome brain guiding him straight to flopping down atop his unmade sheets. Halfway to his bedroom he paused, pivoted on his heel and defied all odds. He hobbled straight to the open door, barely able to hold his gaze.

He screamed his throat raw.

Glass littered the bed, the sheets torn and stained with blood. The smell was raw, the stench flooding his nostrils and bile was rising in his throat. Feeling his stomach quirk, cursing his daughter then immediately apologising, he sprinted to the en-suite and fell above the toilet.

This wasn’t purely morning sickness. John groaned: he wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated or furious with himself for the unholy amounts he must have drank.

Chest heaving and sweat rolling down his face, John tried desperately to piece last night back together. He wretched, body laying limp as he continued to void his stomach. His bottom lip trembled as he shakily rose to all fours. Again, his pulse surged and ears pricked at the sudden voice behind him.

“Christ, John. The bloody hell happened in ‘ere?”

John flushed the toilet and stumbled to his feet, wiping at his mouth. He could barely look Andy in the eye, gaze pointlessly averted back to the chaos of what was always the most pristine of the three bedrooms.

He brushed past the guitarist and immersed himself in the room. John felt the stench of blood hit him again and he realised far too late that he was shaking, muttering, tears streaming in hot torrents down his puffy cheeks. He almost decked Andy as a hand was lain atop of his jittering shoulder.

“Watch it, man.” Andy avoided the hit.

John took two more laboured steps and his weight collapsed, knees giving out beneath him. He swore, voice hitching as his tears streamed beyond his control. John was a small pile of black and red, hunched into a pathetic little ball as he buried his head in his hands. He shuddered as the sudden body heat saw Andy folding two arms around his quaking form.

“On my own, cried before.”

Desperate to stifle his tears he almost missed the tender, smooth voice that magically filled his ears.

“Through a broken window, Johnny.” A pause for a breath. “There’s a broken dream.”

John’s head jolted up, he turned as Andy knelt back down in front of him.

“I had to find the hard way, love is not what it seems.” The poetry flowed, rhythmic. Mystical.

John’s mouth dropped open, he couldn’t form any words. Any more of a response was too much of an ask in the moment. His eyebrows furrowed, tears threatening to fall again.

He lurched his huge body forward, wrapping his arms desperately around Andy’s slender frame. John settled his head in his shoulder; tears soaking straight through the black satin and leaving a mark. Andy just held him, in a oddly tender embrace. He continued to sing, soft and sensual. It was nothing like John had ever heard before.

Andy truly had an incredible voice and, it wasn’t the first time that the thought crossed John’s mind, he wished the fans could hear Andy more. John knew that he wished he could, which was another reason why _Power Station_ had been god sent.

John couldn’t recall the guitarist being so vulnerable, his voice sounding so haunting as it just had then when he had sang to him. Not even in their countless cocaine fuelled escapes had Andy ever seemed so… not Andy.

“Had to find the hard way, John, love is not what it seems.” The voice trailed off, Andy had been rocking back and forth as though he was marking out guitar riff after riff.

“W-what, shit.” John was still crying like a pathetic little girl, “who did you.. Ands, _who_ did you write that for?” He stammered out, trying to focus his hazy gaze on Andy’s shielded light eyes.

Andy didn’t answer. A hundred questions whirled about John’s mind. A melody. A bass line. The realisation hit him in an instant: this wasn’t for him. This song was _not_ for any of them. It was for Andy, _just_ Andy and that was the way it should be.

Andy withdrew his arms as John’s face screamed his confusion, his upset, mouth working fast but no sound dropped from his plush lips.

“D-do you,” he sniffed, “have.. you know, more?” He let it linger. “_More_ lyrics?”

  
_Had to find the hard way._

Andy’s smile was soft yet it didn’t reach his eyes. It sang of the strange fondness that seemed so alien to John in terms of their Duran days. Although in terms of _Power Station_: John felt at home. Still, he didn’t know where to look.

  
_Love is not what it seems._

“Those aren’t.. those lyrics, they aren’t.. _his_.” John stated, voice cracking on the final syllable.

After a beat, Andy shook his head. “No, Tigger. They’re mine, all mine.”

John focused his bleary eyes on the floor, on the shards of glass that he had only now realised lay inches from them both. He shifted so he could rest against the foot of the bed, tossing the wayward stained sheets as far from him as he could.

Andy followed suit. They sat still in a prolonged silence. Only breaths could be heard, quickening then deepening as finally John’s tears stopped their flow.

He lay a heavy head on Andy’s shoulder. He heard a soft chuckle and watched Andy remove his glasses and John brushed the guitarist’s long black hair from out of his face.

John engulfed the air, although it threatened to choke him.

“He’s gone, isn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bringing his hand up to his face, John nervously began devouring his cuticles. He felt his shoulder pinch, his breaths grow erratic and swore he wouldn’t cry again. Andy didn’t deserve that, he wasn’t here to play psychiatrist. Even when his friend’s hormones were surging far beyond his own control.

Andy didn’t need to answer, John knew everything that he needed to know in that moment. They let the silence take over as John buried his face deeper in Andy’s neck, the bastard tears clogging his vision again.

John had no idea how much longer he could keep Andy there, having demoted him to his personal rock. His rock between multiple incredibly hard places that even John wasn’t sure he’d want to Andy to have to breech. That was Roger’s job… _Roger_.

Roger, who’s walls were smeared in blood. Roger, who’s satin sheets were tainted with glass, the vodka stench filling the murky air.

Roger: who John had driven away for the final time. _Roger_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The featured song is _Broken Window_ taken from Andy’s solo album, released in 1987 ‘Thunder.’ __  
_  
_I’m absolutely in love with this album and even if it makes me a slight DD traitor: I cannot get enough of Andy’s voice and killer guitar solos. Period._  
___  
_He probably didn’t have anything written for it at this point but oh well, the man is thinking ahead. Maybe there was a Duran worthy track in that song book..._  



	19. Is There Anyone Out There, Anyone Else Outside?

Neither Taylor had spoken of what John was calling his most pitiful moment of hormone-crazed weakness. It was just another episode in a series spanning six, sex driven and deluded years. He had wallowed in it, replaying the fateful night over and over; torturing himself by how little he could remember.

If anything it was Andy’s words, the look of guilt in his unshielded eyes, that were all he could focus on. Andy hadn’t a clue what had happened… or maybe he did. Maybe Roger had told him before he left, had John even given Roger the chance to tell him? Did John chase him out? Did John _force_ Roger out?

_Had Roger abandoned me without a second thought?_

A million and one questions whirled around his tired head, making him queasy and choking him with little remorse. The guilt was strangling, the thought of what he had lost. The feeling was far too familiar, it both lingered and haunted him. Why was he still taking it?

***  
  


Two gruelling weeks had passed and John hadn’t heard a word from Roger. He kept forcing the idea upon himself that _Arcadia_ was calling: that’s where Roger is. _That_ _and_ _only_ _that_ is the real reason he left.

John truly suffered from that strange form of narcissism in which the patient assumes they are the instigator of everything bad in the world of those who bring the only joy to their own - making it his own fault.

“That can’t be a bloody thing, you moron.” He muttered into his pillow, hair plastered to his sweat-slick forehead.

He had hardly slept in the last two weeks but that wasn’t important. He didn’t need sleep.

“Where do these thoughts even come from? Rio, I need an opinion.” He lay two huge hands atop of his stomach, shuffling back so that his head popped out from underneath the rumpled sheets. “Am I losing it? Is Daddy well and truly… shit. _Crazy?”_

_Is who well and truly crazy?_

“On second thought.” He added after a beat, “don’t answer that. I’ll let Nick answer, beat some sense into me.”

_Daddy. Sweet Lord, Taylor._

  
***  
  


John was growing, inching closer and closer to the days in which, assuming he hadn’t already passed them, trying to hide himself would look even more idiotic and pretentious than before. He had passed the beginning, crucial stage with anything but flying colours but here he was: April 1985. Almost six months pregnant.

Bloody hell.

He had began noting down in a journal how he was feeling day by day. Whether it be his thoughts on the stretches of his skin or, how his hormones were driving him mad. It helped to steady his mind somewhat and proved to be pretty much the only comfort. He pointedly ignored documenting the swelling of his nipples. That was just strange. His ministrations sent wild shocks through this body, the pulses ruthless as his nether regions were virtually attacked but still, his diary didn’t need to know about all that.

John had noticed, appalled at himself for how long it had taken, that day by day even Andy was beginning to slip from him. Andy. His partner in cocaine raving crime. _Andy_. The pint sized guitarist would be heading out more, frothing pints in hand, more than ready to join their endless groups of friends on endless pub crawls around New York. Although every vein thrummed willingly for John to join them, for those veins to absorb every last drop of delectable amber liquor, he decided that no. No, no. Finally letting his better senses (and the Nick within him talk) John kept as far from it all as he could, holing himself up in his bedroom (sure that Nick would have plenty to say about _that_) and wrapping himself in his silken sheets. As though they really were his cocoon; his shield.

_At least when alcohol was involved one Taylor could always control himself… right? Wasn’t that what he was like? Rog has never had any problems with a little hot liquid pulsing throughout his little, firecracker of a body… has he? _John willed his thoughts, traitorous and all the more confusing, to stop.

_Did Rog once mention an issue with Champagne? _

“Cryptic bastard.” He coughed out, more into his pillow than into actual existence.

It was safe to say that he thought about the drummer non stop. When Roger’s birthday rolled around, April 26th, John debated back and forth for hours about whether to call him. To apologise, to poorly sing _Happy Birthday_ across the cracking line, to immerse himself in Roger’s undoubtedly loving Gloucester home. That entire Friday was pure torture. Not even a line of powdered courage allowed him to leave a message.

John couldn’t even think back to how he had acted on Simon’s last birthday. His mind lived to play tricks on him: whether or not he knew about the baby; whether or not he was sober enough to get through Simon’s more... _private _celebrations without a hitch.

Thinking that John knew himself about ten percent, he quickly came to the conclusion that:

“A) Nah, too early and stubborn. B) Abso-fucking-lutely. Charlie didn’t deserve a damn thing, you prick.” John groaned, ignoring the sudden quirks of his shoulders and quivering of his bottom lip.

Bringing his fingers up to his lips he began nibbling at his cuticles. He quickly began to bite at them, eyes darting about the poorly lit room as though he was looking for any remnants of Roger, Andy, Nick and…

“_Simon_.” He choked out, letting a single tear caress his cheek.

The following night and the same torture ensued. This time his thoughts were wild, raving, plaguing him with all the arguments, the fights, the look of disappointment in those baby blue eyes. Those baby blue eyes that told so much, never betraying Simon the way John’s engorged browns did. Simon could hide his emotion, he was an actor - in theory. He was born and raised to be on stage and knew the first rule: to hide every insecurity behind that wall. Your stage persona is all they want too see, to marvel at, to revel in your success. Not the crumbling asshole trying to put on a pretty face.

Having broken some form of fancy idol he had drunkenly picked up God knows where in lieu of smashing his precious _Smirnoff_ into a thousand tiny shards of unmistakable feelings and promises, John lay helpless on the sofa, long limbs sprawled and bass in hand.

Although he could barely find the strength, he clutched tight to his beloved four strings.

“Is there…” He paused with a sniff, “anyone, o-out there? Anyone.. please, out.” The floodgates broke free, what was he even crying over? “_Outside?” _

Hunched over in a pathetic ball of black and red, John played for hours. The callouses on his abused fingertips were red raw and threatening to bleed if he made it through another album.

  
He wouldn’t be making it to _Seven And The Ragged Tiger_ in one piece.

For the first time in months, John let his fingers wander _miles away from nowhere_, where he knew _the wind doesn’t have a name._

“People, people tell m-me,” he hastily swiped at his face, cheeks aflame, “I have.. _haven’t_ changed at all.”

His fingers were shaking.

“But I do, d-don’t feel..” He bit into his bottom lip, hard enough to bruise. “The same.”

He removed the strap from around his shoulders.

“And I guess you’ve had that feelin’ too, you.. _can’t_ laugh.” He let out a pitiful laugh, “can’t laugh all.. the time!”

John dropped his bass.

The single, melancholy strum, echoed endless nights of just that. Each night the set list was getting shorter and shorter, he’d be lucky if he could make it through _A View To A Kill _in one piece, barely being able to keep the pulsating beat in mind.

There was already a delay in which he played it, strumming with little conviction and confidence. How simple. The thought terrified him, his lack of creative flair was taking its toll, his happiness in tow. All hanging by an incredibly worn out thread, in knots and knots, that no amount of haunting, breathless _Hold Back The Rain_ lyrics could even begin to unravel.

Simon’s warning. John’s line of fire.


	20. Heads Turning As The Lights Flashing Out Are So Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty chapters!! My Gods, I cannot believe that this is still going and that people are still reading! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the lovely comments and kudos that just keep coming, I’m honoured. <3 
> 
> (I would say I’d apologise from depriving you of JoSi content but honestly, I’m too invested in this fic now that purely that one storyline isn’t enough! That being said, another (Re)Union Of The Snake is very close- they’ll fuck again, eventually...)

Although the _Power Station_ boys had somehow pulled out every trick, called in every favour to keep John out of the press these past few weeks, not even John’s conscience could keep him from avoiding _MTV_.

_MTV_ made _Duran Duran. Duran Duran _made _MTV._ Enough said.

They so graciously requested the two Taylors for a half hour segment: the chart countdown.

Both Taylor boys were higher than the fucking fireworks set off in _New Moon On Monday._

John was stumbling throughout the studio, blinking so slow and mouth hanging open that it looked as though he had suddenly lost about twenty IQ points, another twenty as soon as the lights went down. He was so damn slow to respond, head rocking back and forth to simulate a nod and understanding.

Andy was loving it, the two of them trying to embody a mini _Morecambe and Wise_… or something. They couldn’t have been further away.

Andy Taylor and John Taylor didn’t even deserve that pristine of a comparison.

It was the _ZZ Top_ video that did it. Cursing inwardly, John couldn’t tear his eyes away as ‘Legs’ played, taking in delicious limb after limb. He had to drape his questionable mustard scarf atop his lap, sitting cross legged in a stool beside Andy.

He felt the familiar tap, then insistent shove on his bladder and he groaned. The video drew to a close and John felt that familiar prick down south.

_Again Rio? I’ve peed six times already today and.. oh shit!_

He was high enough that his acting skills jacked up from ‘shy guy who’s down to fuck’ to ‘narcissistic shit who’s down to fuck’ within moments - knowing he could play this out.

_Hang on a second girl._

“I can’t, Ands, I can’t do it man!” He quipped, leg bobbing irritably.

Andy, eyes blown wide, turned to look at him with a wry smile in place. He knew full well what game John was playing.

_What did I just say, Rio? Impatient as always, just like your father._

Andy egged him on and John just screamed: “I can’t take it anymore! I’ve gotta go to the bathroom!” And out he ran.

_Aaaaaaaand, the foetus wins this round._

The audience could blame the more than likely erotic scenery and how deeply the bassist claims to have been affected, his leather trousers proving suffocating. However Andy, probably more than a little turned on himself, knew perfectly how to make it into a slightly suggestive joke.

“You promised me you wouldn’t play Springsteen!” John called over his check clad shoulder, halfway to the stage door.

Andy just flung his head back to face the camera, smirk in place as the door behind him closed.

“And now for some _Bruce Springsteen!_”

John sprinted to the bathroom, ducking stage hand after stage hand. He rounded the corner, panting, then sighed in relief at finally making it. After he was done he quickly surveyed himself in the mirror: jaw slack, cheeks flushed and he felt the sudden rush. 

Before he could comprehend it, his right hand had delved deep into his monochrome check blazer pocket and he was fumbling for his prized possession. The familiar weight, the comfort. Hurrying, hands shaking, he poured out the powder and hunched over, diving back into his pocket for the straw he knew was burning a hole not too deep inside there.

He took in a huge snort, lifting his head as it jerked uncontrollably; fighting to have his eyes land back on his reflection in the suddenly blurry mirror. He jumped into the air, bottom lip trembling and legs twitching. He engulfed a breath of coke littered aroma and stumbled out of the bathroom, trying to associate his new surroundings.

The corridor was long and winding, the walls were probably muted but right then they screamed in blinding neon, fuchsia and turquoise, swirling about him in blaring shapes. Lots of triangles turning weird squiggles that seemed to sum up the era to a tee. John laughed, miraculously avoiding tripping on his own feet, fumbling for the double doors that probably opened back into the studio. Andy must be there, anxiously awaiting his own turn to slip away and revive those aching veins. Probably.

Where even was John, again?

***  
  


“How could you let _that_ tail go, man?!”

John cocked his head up, squinting, looking to put the grotty face to grainy voice.

“She’s hot! She was all over ya, John!”

He still hadn’t found the man.

John’s eyes scanned the club, a sea of red and black, mystical shadows that were blurring together and blurring under the strobe lights. The aroma was rich, stifling, full of drinks and drugs. The stench of sex was rife.

“W-what was.. you know, her uh.” He trailed off, talking into his cocktail glass.

“Which one?”

“The one who.. the little one, brown hair. Wanted me to meet… uh, somebody. Her friend?” John stammered out, perking up as the drink swirled about his heavy head.

“Oh yeah, the model.”

Cocking his head, John delivered the inquisitive look that tended to paint his face at the word: “Model?”

“Yeah, think so. Renée.”

The name didn’t ring any bells. But then again, he was more than a little inebriated and the sudden ‘holy shit, did we part that morning on bad terms?’ thought plagued his mind.

He had probably already fucked her. She didn’t even seem too interested in him, tonight.

“Re.. wha?”

“_Simonsen_. Renée Toft Simonsen.”

“Simon.” He simply stated.

“No, no, John. Simon-_sen_.”

John nodded, still clueless. “_Simon_.”

A small smile began to tug at his lips, eyes too tired to be roaming the room for her silhouette.

“I ‘ad a wank to that fine ass just last night!” Someone called, laughing manically from the other end of the bar.

“True that!” Another so and so called, sparking a mass sea of agreement.

_Who had a what over who? Whom? Is it who or whom?_

“There ya go, peeping Tom!” The guy, decked out in a sweet suit that surely couldn’t rival his beloved _Anthony Price_, lay a huge hand on his shoulder.

_Whom._

“She’s kinda hot. Her mate’s even _hotter_, Johnny, just check out those legs.”

John couldn’t find her. _She was wearing a jacket, wasn’t she? Covering those tits? Not a skimpy dress? _Who the fuck knows where the broad went.

“Sounds like _you_..” John drunkenly tapped the mystery guy right across his breastbone, “you should screw ‘er!”

“I’ll take her hot mate, thanks! You should get at her, man. She likes ya!”

_Fucking doubt it._

“Does she now?” John wasn’t convinced. Nor could he bring himself to care. “Why she.. she even in New York?”

Laughter erupted, John just sat there.

“New York’s a long-ass way from _Birmingham_, JT!”

“Yeah, John. I get the feeling, we’re not in America anymore!” Some guy, voice low and grating, barked remotely into John’s direction.

The moment eventually passed, the awkwardness was suffocating but miraculously John was laughing at that prospect that the girl _didn’t_ want him. More astonishingly, John _didn’t_ want her. He was a little repulsed even though she had approached him.

_Didn’t Nick say something about hiring her? That ass? _

Turns out it _was_ her hot friend who wanted to bed him that night. This… Renée was just the wingman. A pretty clueless as to who she was dealing with, wingman. John snorted.

“You takin’ any _birds_ home then or not? Why we makin’ the effort, Johnny?” The guy wrapped his huge arm around his body and John set his head atop of the strong shoulder.

He made a dismissive gesture and winced at how much effort that took out of him. Missing the raised blonde eyebrow, John craned his head into the damp neck mere centimetres from his lips. He parted them, tongue jutting forward.

“You sure ya feeling alright, JT? You’re really going to let these babes go?

“What babes?”

Fingers were pointed and John, mouth agape, failed at following them.

“Whatever man.”

Before John had time to associate, another wave of burning voices, all with some bullshit that just had to be said at that very moment, bombarded the club.

John caught glimpses of: _is that? It is! That’s John Taylor. Not guitarist, bassist. Whacked outta his mind. Not good. Not looking good. Looking podgy. Where’s the cheekbones at? _And inwardly groaned. Outside, he was sniggering.

John reluctantly had to withdraw his tongue. He barked out his drunken laughter into the man’s neck, chest shaking as the words flung wild about his head.

“Y-yeah! Me, _I_ look all.. all royally fucked up and _fat_! You’d n-nev.. _never_ guess why!” He hiccuped.

The guy cocked his head, taking in the sudden sly look that painted John’s face.

“Ya wanna know.. know tha _shit_?” He teased, over and over, laughing as his drink had been miraculously topped up. Once, maybe twice. “Yeah, _you_ wan’ know the _gooood_ shit!” He screamed, glass in hand.

After a good five minutes of John’s demanding tone turn giggling fits and hiccups; his limbs were loose enough that his tongue just let rip, steamrolling onto his drinking/confession buddy and the crowd of shoulder pad wearing hopefuls that materialised out of nowhere at their table.

“I’m, _fuck_.” He couldn’t steady himself. “You’re gon’ luv this!”

_Where’d this lil glass come from?_

He blurted out. “I’m knocked up, man!” And his arms were flailing before he downed the shot, without a wince. “Knocked up _good!” _John let the final syllable linger.

_Oh, Tequila. Nice. Somebody’s out here makin’ it rain!_

The silence in the room was deafening. Even John _every cocktail under the sun pooling in his stomach_ Taylor could bloody well hear that. For about three seconds, anyway.

Then his ears were ringing, the sound shrill and piercing. Mouths were moving, eyes were widening but John… John wasn’t having any of it. His head swam, the tsunami filling his brain and yanking the helpless organ side to side, rocking up and over, up and over as though Simon was captaining the boat. As though they were in Antigua again and the storm kicked in.

_Simon. Antigua. Fuck._

Shakily, he rose to his feet. Determined to not let any of these stragglers see anymore of him and the tears that were likely to fall at any moment. He took maybe two steps and his body came crashing to the floor; limbs flailing out from beneath him.

He tried to laugh, he really did but it was more a series of halfhearted grunts that punctuated his struggle at getting back to his feet.

  
The Bass God was alone, well and truly, traipsing out of whichever club he had disgraced with his face that night and stood solitary, mind reeling, in the middle of the street. Rain beat down around him, cooling his alcohol flush skin. His clothes were plastered to him, hair skewed as he began the long, worrisome, drunken meander through the murky streets of downtown Birmingham.

Somehow, he’d eventually end up back at good ole’ 34 Simon Road, like the way his drunken fairytales always ended; submerged in his rumpled red sheets, chest bare, water and Ibuprofen at his side and a towel draped over his eyes.

John figured that he would make it through this night one way or another. And if singing pick and mix verses of _The Reflex_ and _Is There Something I Should Know_ (and doing the little accusatory finger thing at an innocent house when screaming the words ‘You’re about as easy as a nuclear war’ the entire way back would keep him conscious, he’d do it).

“Without no.. you know d-_doubt_, no shame gon’ _fall_ upon.. upon the, sweet.. the people of _Hollywood!_” He ceremoniously barked out the infamous _Twentieth Century Fox _theme as though that was Hollywood’s (the other, more notorious Hollywood’s) actual anthem, heavy head held high.

About twenty minutes and half a dozen puddles later, the realisation hit the bassist. “_Kings Heath_? How in the bloody.. fuck, did we end up down ‘ere?” _Shit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The MTV scene is inspired by (or just completely ripped off of) the real MTV segment that John and Andy did in 1985.
> 
> This is one of my most favourite DD videos, it’s gold. They are so far gone that I’m laughing- I shouldn’t be but I’m laughing, not just at their camaraderie. Plus the whole bathroom scenario fits so perfectly here, in my opinion.
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kBj_rYdDfqQ


	21. I’m Talking For Free, I Can’t Stop Myself

John groaned, shuffling, mumbling into the pillows. The feathers, the silk and then the diamond. _Diamond? Bloody hell._

He rolled onto his back, immediately throwing his hand over his eyes and wincing at the blinding light. His head pounded, swimming as he wallowed into the plush and bright pink blur that was the bedding.

John immediately knew where he was although he had no recollection of how he had ended up there, no idea of the state he must have arrived in. The stench of disappointment that radiated from him, the disappointment in those haunting hazel eyes that would have glossed over him upon entry before softening as John was guided through to the bedroom.

  
***  
  


It felt incredibly strange to be perched at Nick’s dining room table without Nick. John inwardly groaned, cursing how drunk he had to have been to not only bang down the door to a still incredibly elegant Sylvia Bates around four AM but to forget that Nick didn’t even live there anymore.

“Another slice of toast, Nigel?”

“Please.”

There he sat opposite Nick’s mother Sylvia, head in his hands and ears ringing. He still felt queasy but the blurry memory of what John knew incredibly well of the smile she had worn then her maternal instincts kicking in and the fact that she had called him, in her eloquent and graceful tone, Nigel upon his anything but graceful arrival- were soothing. He felt more and more at ease as she explained the previous few hours, with little judgment: why he had awoken in pink sheets with a glass of water and Ibuprofen at the bedside.

Nick had truly been raised by the most marvellous of women.

John hadn’t spoken to Sylvia like this, one on one, in years. He was always incredibly thankful that she was accepting of him for corrupting her son and that those so-called _wounds_ wouldn’t heal. Or, when he did apologise for just that (he still laughed at the memory, it would never fade) she whirled around and quipped _no you silly boy, both parties are guilty_, as her pretty eyes roamed both Nicholas and Nigel decked out in mid ranged chiffon and sharing a woman’s suit from _British Home Stores._

The conversation was flowing easier and easier. John found himself opening up, he even dared to use the name _Sylvie_ as he had started doing at the age of fourteen: when Nigel had finally accepted that he was a part of them, the Bates family.

“Nigel,” Sylvia engulfed a breath and began dishing out the tea, “Please don’t hate me for this dear but you must,” her voice began to fade as the blaring sirens within John’s head rang out again.

John had two clumsy hands on his mug, _his_ mug: it had a ruby red guitar on it and Sylvia always bought it out for when he came round, bringing it up to his lips and letting the steam frame his disheveled hair and puffy face.

“My dear, you look… awful.” He could hear the pain in her voice: both of them knowing full well that John couldn’t purely blame his alcohol for how he appeared now. “What happened out there?”

John almost dropped his mug into his lap.

“When’s _Nigel_ coming back?”

At that, John lost it.

Tears were pouring out much faster than John could handle. He told Sylvia everything from the band’s struggles to his constant worries that this was it: Andy and Roger were drifting; _he_ was drifting. Nick and Simon were in one place and then there was he, a million miles away batting down the hatches to his own, ever growing dystopia.

John was cut off with a hiccup as he felt those familiar, tender arms wrap around his quivering form. It hadn’t been the first time he had bawled into Nick’s mother’s arms, full of shame with his face buried in her shoulder with Nick by his side: his small, manicured hand coming to lay lovingly atop his jerking shoulder. Although this time the guilt intensified. John knew that the ruffled satin shirt she was wearing was a gift from Nick, from the both of them for her last birthday and had cost Nick a pretty penny. There he was, ruining another thing Sylvia Bates cared about.

Then came the hard part, John had been working his way up to delivering the biggest of the blows: silently praying that Nick hadn’t beaten him too it.

Nick and Sylvia had grown apart over the past couple of years, they had too. All of the guys had too. As much as John missed his mother with all his heart, on some level he knew that she was okay. That maybe; just maybe, he could walk back in and she’s still come running up to him with her hands about his waist ready to hoist him into the air like he was four and having completed his first day at Catholic school again.

Granted that would prove much harder now that he eclipsed his mother, Jean, by several inches: John still clung to the memory.

It was shaky, stammered and more into his second cup of tea then directed at Sylvia’s weary face but eventually, it was out there.

“I’m _pregnant_.” John let out in a barely audible breath.

John hadn’t the foggiest as to how but he managed to bring his ready gaze up and hold it, holding the suddenly dropped hazel eyes before him and the biting into the pink bottom lip. Sylvia immediately raised her gaze back to John with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She simply opened her arms and again beckoned John over who again became a tearful mess, staining those pristine rouge ruffles.

Her voice was mystical, soothing yet instinctive. She spoke clear, knowing when to ask and when to just let John bawl. The minutes passed as the tears began to stop, eventually a single trail rolled itself down his flushed cheek and John bat away his last outburst with a swift flick of his wrist.

It went without saying that it was Simon’s. Perhaps Sylvia hadn’t been aware of every detail of their relationship but at the same time, John knew he couldn’t lie to her. He insisted on her knowing. He insisted on letting her trip him up along the way.

“Does your mother know, Nigel?” She stated with a voice that showed no judgment. It was full of understanding. “Have you told her?”

John had now retreated back into his seat opposite Sylvia who placed a deft hand atop of his. She squeezed it and he felt a pang of warmth ignite from the touch. John simply met her eyes, the quivering lip was more than enough of an explanation.

Sylvia hummed her understanding. “_Please_ Nigel, dear, tell her. She shouldn’t be kept in the dark about this, neither should Simon. He’s a good boy, one of the best I have met.” She paused, again squeezing his hand, “He deserves the best as do you, Nigel. For me; not my son, for once ignore him and his opinion, for _me_ please, just think about it.”

She withdrew her hand and John felt the fog clear from his mind.

“You deserve to be happy. Let yourself be _happy_, Nigel, you know Nick, Roger and I would want nothing less for you.”

John hadn’t even realised if Nick’s father was here. Whether Roger would be completely disappointed, appalled, ashamed…

That didn’t matter, he could tell Roger another time. For the moment, he knew what he had to do. He wanted to do it alone: just he and them.

He would become a wreck in his mother’s arms in no time, he knew that, but it was something he would have to face; a deep fear. Alone. He could pull through, without Nick or Simon by his side. This time.

***  
  


The walk back to 34 Simon Road was gruelling, John trying to rid the last of the alcohol from his veins during the very short walk.

There he stood trembling and stuttering outside his own front door in last nights clothes, heart beating so fast that John wondered whether it would burst. At least then he wouldn’t have to explain to his Cathaholic mother how her only son had been whoring himself out to any man that would take him and when the love of his life did that one extra special time, he ended up…

_Wait, what?!_

Eugene Taylor opened the door with a smile so large that it helped to calm John somewhat but he couldn’t hide behind his lies forever. They made small talk whilst awaiting John’s father Jack to return from tinkering with his car in their garage. When he returned John was greeted with a small smile and motioned to sit opposite his father in his chair. John occupied the sofa with his mother to his left. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them. He crossed them again, then favoured his left atop the right as it bobbed irritably.

John’s mother was one of the sweetest, most loving women in his life. She always had been and John just prayed, which was always risky business back in this house, that she still would be after his revelation.

Jean also had the gift of knowing her son better than she did Duran lyrics in and out, back to front. She was his biggest fan. She was well aware of his personal hell long before he showed himself.

***  
  


“We know, Nigel. We have always known.”

“Did you seriously think we bloody didn’t? Really, boy?”

John let his head drop, running a shaky hand through his messy mullet. He yanked out two strands and threw them, with a widening of his eyes and a muttered ‘shit.’

“W-what do you,” he gulped audibly, a break whilst John swallowed what very little pride he may have had left. “Dad, _what_ do you know?”

His parents shared a look, shielded eyes both so knowing in that moment. John felt scrutinised, naked, turning himself away. He bought a nervous hand up to his lips and began biting his cuticles as he let out a nervous sigh, feeling the familiar pricking of his shoulders and tremble of his bottom lip.

“You’re an Omega, you love men. It was bound to happen someday.”

The waterworks were merciless, how John had any liquid left in his body was beyond him.

“Nigel, darling,” Jean began, voice light and rhythmical “please just tell us what it is this time and perhaps we can help you.”

John tensed then immediately relaxed into her embrace, her tender touch on his shoulder as he was lured into her arms. She had spent years comforting him throughout his nightmares, his childhood traumas. Surely this familiar touch would again comfort him, mopping up his tears.

“_Nigel_.” His father, Jack, prompted with a stern voice.

John felt his mother begin to retreat but wrapped himself further into her supportive frame, muffling his cries in her shoulder. He didn’t even know when he began crying again, just that he knew he would and would cry hard.

“I, I uh, shit,” he hastily swiped at his face, “am.. Mother, I am…so incredibly _sorry_!”

“_Nigel_.” Her voice was haunting, pleading. “Sorry?”

John turned his father who’s gaze was heated, intense behind the thick frames.

“Son, just _say_ it. Please, we need to hear it to believe it.” His father’s eyes were scrutinising, they didn’t waver from his mid section that John could no longer hide. “Nigel, please.”

He engulfed a huge, pitiful breath and cursed everything about his own existence.

Hands rubbing together, breaths coming fast, knee bobbing, John let out: “I’m pregnant with Simon Le Bon’s baby.”

John would never forget the look his father gave him. The words had left him speechless, his look was indescribable: something John had never seen before. Whatever it was, was gut wrenching; tearing through him straight to his heart and twisting it, then to his gut and his stomach flipped. He felt queasy and choked all at once, suffocated in his own living room.

John would never forget how his father had simply risen from his seat and strolled straight out of them room, without word, leaving him swearing and shaking, emotions rife, before falling to the floor. He hit his knees so hard that he screamed, the sound raw as it echoed through the tiny space. The walls were closing in on him, threatening to fall atop him as his heart continued to crumble.

John didn’t even see the look in his mothers eyes. The fire, the rage, the _pity_… he didn’t know what. He would never know. He didn’t dare to angle his face up to see her standing there, looming over him, through his teary eyes.

John heard voices that blared together and the sound of a door shutting. He jerked his head up, fingernails raw as he continued to gnaw at them. He was alone, enclosed. Separated from his parents yelling that was amplified, whirring about his head.

He crawled, it was laboured and painful, towards the sofa and sat against it in a slump. John tilted his head upwards, bleary eyes tracing the circles in the ceiling, breath hitching. John ran a shaky hand down his body, tracing the outlines of his oversized black satin jacket. He pushed it away to reveal his stomach. He managed to pry those fingers free from his teeth to land them atop of Rio, who seemed to sturdy him in that moment. She was doing her dance again, rocking back and forth, jamming to her own beat.

“A true Le Bon, huh?” He chuckled, lacking conviction.

John only wished he could find the strength to crawl to his bass standing solitary across the room. A mere couple metres seemed an impossible trek. Throughout his shaky breaths and dying sobs, he massaged her and let a slow; melancholy rhyme drop from his lips.

“I’m talkin’ for,” John paused, feeling a small tap from within, “free. I c-_can’t_ stop myself, Rio, it’s a.. a _New Religion_, oh.”

He continued to sing, through a whisper, steadying his heavy head and letting both hands caress his skin. It didn’t matter how long John sat there rattling off a single, vulnerable sound song after song.

This was his home. He wanted Rio to be welcome here. He wanted to walk back in, a bouncing baby on his hip and his man at his side as together they strolled up the familiar steps to put his daughter down in his childhood bed.

_Who’s man? I don’t deserve that man._

If his parents weren’t happy with that, he didn’t need to be here. The thought was ripping his heart to shreds but, he had the money, he had the chance.

_Why would he even still want me? _

He had spent his entire life running from those who tried to help him most. What difference would this make?


	22. I’m Out Of Reach, I’ll Talk If It Feels Right

It had been years since Nigel had fallen asleep in his mothers arms. John had never and vowed to never do such a thing although with his emotions and his lonesome nightmare; he might just have too.

John chanced raising his head upon hearing the all too familiar opening ‘swoosh’ of the heavy wooden door. He didn’t have to look very far upon seeing his mother standing before him, a timid smile trying to cross her nude lips.

Jean took a seat beside him on the floor, heels digging into the carpet. She held out an arm, all warm and inviting, for John to fall into. With a huff, he lay his heavy head on her shoulder, ruffled dark brown hair falling into his eyes. He tried to bat them away but was beaten to it: a soft, tender hand was already caressing his face.

“It’s not going to be easy but” Jean paused, feeling her son stiffen in her grasp, “you know that already, don’t you.”

John ground his face deeper into her shoulder in response.

“Nigel, darling, are you.. um, are you—”

“—Happy now?” The word dropped from his lips harsh like a curse, being amplified by a shrug. “_I did what I did?_”

_An interesting lyric._

John met his mother’s shielded eyes, seeing them grow weary through the cat eye frames. She nodded, enclosing her soft hand around John’s tattered own.

  
_Are you happy now?_

John cursed under his breath, the hot tear as it rolled off of his cheek to land perfectly atop of his mother’s tight grip. John let her take his weight, growing limp in her grasp, as she bought their linked hands up slowly; placing a small kiss atop his knuckle. With her free hand, she began the small and soothing ministrations on his palm and immediately John felt himself relax into her tender embrace.

  
_Oh, I did what I did, did what I did?_

“Nigel, you _can’t_ keep yourself from Simon forever. It’s not healthy, you know? How do you think he would feel if your roles were reversed? Wouldn’t he want nothing more than for the two of you to be happy, with a happy and healthy, beautiful daughter in this world?”

John felt his body stiffen again, he desperately tried to cling on to his mother’s movements: ignoring all the burning retorts that filled his head.

“I can’t imagine you doing this _alone_, my son, or the two of you... from opposite sides of the world.”

John found it harder to breathe. The mention of the single name shoving his heart into a vice and clenching it.

“Sweetie _please_, you know you will have to tell him one day. Just don’t make it too late and keep it out of the public eye.” She was finding her voice, the right intensity. “Poor Simon will need time to come to terms with it too, it’s changing his life... just like your father does.”

“Dad.” John’s voice cracked on the single syllable. “Does he.. he’s, shit, mum, he’s so.. bloody _disappointed_ in me. He’s been saying for years that somethin’ like this bullshit would happen!” He blurted out, voice hitching. “That I can’t stop myself and I’d end up.. _whoring_ myself out to some.. some reckless slob.”

“Nigel, stop it.” Her voice raised uncharacteristic, raw. “Your father just.. he just, he needs some time to adjust.”

“He _hates_ me! You knew this would happen. He’s been embarrassed to bring home an omega since day one. Don’t, _fuck_.. mum, don’t try and _deny_ that now!”

Jean let his hand drop.

“Every parent fuckin’ is!” He screeched.

John knew he was in the wrong, it was a delayed reaction. The tears brimming in his mother’s eyes were awful: clawing at his heart and trying not to break it, to have it crumble into a thousand tiny shards. Shards of cut throat glass. He immediately took back his words, apologies dropping left right and centre. That wasn’t his father, he had never held Nigel’s status against him like that.

“Mum, I.. I’m so” It came out in a stuttering breath. “_S-sorry_.”

There was no amount of alcohol John could blame for this outburst.

“I’m so sorry.”

Minutes passed in excruciating silence but his mother didn’t leave his side, only opting to guide him to the sofa.

His mother engulfed a deep breath and John began to gnaw again at his bottom lip, burying his face away.

“I want you, dear, to be…” there was a pause, John choked on air. “_John_ for a minute.”

_Be John?_

“What?”

_Who does she think I am around her?_

“Yes son, I want you to be _John_ and tell me, no, _sing_ to me one song. One song that will tell me how you are feeling; right now, your struggles and your worries. Right now, don’t think about it.”

John was sure his mother knew which song he had lined up, or at the very least the album.

The album that was written about him and his cocaine.

He steadied himself; parting his lips and praying for the tears to remain at bay so he could get through one verse without stifling his words.

“And sometimes.. I, I'm caught in a la-and—_slide_.” John began, a mere whisper. “My.. b-beat's so.. so in time, can you look at me?”

John forced his gaze up, he was anything but scrutinised by his mother.

“I'm out of reach, I'll..” He gulped, face flushing red. “Mum, I’ll.. I’ll talk... if it feels _right_.”

His voice was growing in intensity.

“I've had my _Last Chance On The Stairway._”

The words echoed throughout the tiny front room, seeming to splay themselves to the crimson red walls and staining them.

“I’ve had my… last” He sniffed, tipping his head back, “_Last Chance On The Stairway_.”

His mother remained silent for a gruelling minute. John couldn’t look at her, he kept his gaze averted and forced back down his tears.

“Hmm, I figured it was either that or _Lonely In Your Nightmare_, John.”

_John? Did she just—_

“Now, what song would _Nigel_ choose? My son, Nigel? _Lonely In Your Nightmare_, right?” He felt his mother’s touch on his arm, small and insistent. “Or _Save A Prayer_?”

John was desperate to lean into her touch, cheeks aflame.

“Actually I, uh, I think he might… you know, choose—”

“—What track would _Nigel_ choose, John?”

There was a hesitation. Consideration. Whilst John hunted deep inside, wondering if Nigel could resurface.

“...Something new. You haven’t heard this one, ya know, yet.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

John staggered his gait to open his diaphragm. He paused to steady himself, another brief hesitation whilst he reminded himself of the lyrics.

“Can we.. da-ance in-too tha fy-er-er? That fay-tal ki-i-ss, is all we ne-eed.” John eyed her, how her own chocolate eyes widened at his raw, uncut tone. “Dance in-to the fy-re. The fay-tal sou-ow-ound of.. of, uh, brow-ken dre-ams.”

John shifted, mouth suddenly dry.

“Dance into the fire” he struggled to hold the note, voice cracking at he fell into a new octave. “When all we see, is the View To A Kill.”

Chancing a brisk look, John dropped his head and pivoted so he was facing his mother, knees touching her own.

A small smile tugged at her lips. “James Bond, huh Nigel?”

Slowly but surely, the tiniest of grins cocked up his lip. He nodded, letting the lyrics sync in.

_Perhaps it was the other way round. That was John’s song, wasn’t it?_

John’s mother had known Nigel better than anyone, until Nick had entered his life. There were just some things teenage boys would keep from their mothers, acting foolish as though they didn’t suspect any foul play.

John knew in an instant by the look Jean flashed him: she knew everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“Nigel.” She began again, minutes later and voice taut, “_Who_ is this baby for?”

John’s eyes snapped up, like a double take. His mouth was working but he couldn’t form any sound. He didn’t understand her, he didn’t understand his own…

“Son? Is this baby for John or for Nigel?”

_What the hell is she talking about? Of course it’s… uh, both? Right. Why wouldn’t it be both? I’m both… people._

“If this daughter of yours is for Nigel then I’m incredibly happy. Proud, overjoyed. I couldn’t ask for anything more. If this daughter is for John then I-” She stopped herself.

_I’m both... both._

The silence was deafening. Sirens blared in his mind, he couldn’t form a coherent thought. John wanted to scream, to run. Anywhere. As far from here as he could. His palms were sweaty and his mouth was dry.

“I’m sorry?” He hadn’t heard a single word she had said.

Jean cleated her throat, _when had the tears started falling? _John had never felt so overcome with guilt.

“I said, if this baby is for.. John then, then I- we, we wish you.. all the best.”

It was stammered and forceful. John didn’t know where to look.

“Wherever you are, son. You and your baby. Baby erm.. Taylor.”

“Taylor Le Bon.”

Both sets of eyes widened comically, John having stunned himself with his words. They had just flown so naturally, seeming to fit. 

  
“Taylor _Le Bon_, yeah? Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” His mother smiled, a glimmer of hope evident in those dark eyes.

It was then that John felt the a shift in weight, his mother rising to her feet with the elegance he had admired for so many years. She held out a deft hand to help him stand. Together they took a leisurely stroll through the small house, heading for the staircase. At the foot of them John realised for the first time, that although the trek seemed much shorter the older he had gotten, with his back ache and throbbing head, they were a much harder mountain to climb.

“I’ll help you to bed, bring up a nice warm cup of hot chocolate. How does that sound?” Jean asked him, having adopted that tone that told John he was still five and had earned his weakly treat in her gleaming eyes.

“Sounds great, thank you mum.” He muttered, taking her hand as together they took step by step, his mother helping him to stabilise his weight and keep looking forward.

It had been years since Nigel had fallen asleep in his mothers arms. John had never and vowed to never do such a thing although with his emotions and his lonesome nightmare; he might just have too.

That night he let himself be tucked in, discarded hot chocolate still filling the room with such a sweet smell that John was surprised he hadn’t melted with the cream and marshmallows. That night he let his mother kiss his forehead and run her hands up the grooves of the blanket. That night he let her lay a hand atop of his stomach, overjoyed to see her beautiful smile.

That night John let himself, Nigel, fall into a peaceful sleep; bound right to his childhood bed. His domain, his sanctuary. His mother didn’t leave his side.


	23. From Mountains In The North, Down To The Rio Grande

“Have we got it?”

“I think” there was a sigh of relief, “yeah, we’ve got it!”

The two of them lay submerged in papers, magazine cut outs. They lay dripping in inspiration, ideas flinging off of the walls as they were pretty much barking at each other: what they wanted; what they knew would and wouldn’t work. There had been moments of doubt, plenty of them, and it was clear that there was a lot riding on this. Not just a reputation or a brand. It was a form of promotion still, some form of familiar territory but there would be nothing easy about it, for the both of them. 

“Just _where?_ I don’t know how… how this would work, it wouldn’t be.. you know, _authentic_ enough here? And a screen behind—”

“—Do not question me and _my_ _power_ anymore, Nigel.”

John cocked his head up with a grin, taking in the mischievous look that coated his form.

An slick envelope was tossed atop of the coffee table. It was white and inviting, as was everything that lured John over. He eyed it suspiciously, taking in the look of the beholder as those eyes turned soft and fond. John relaxed. He swiftly pried the envelope open and his bottom lip dropped, eyes widening.

“You cannot be serious? You really think that we—”

John was interrupted again. “—If you’re worried about authenticity, why not take it to where it all began.”

John let his memories creep up on him, he couldn’t hide his joy.

“Nick, you really.. don’t, you really don’t have to do this!” He stammered, feeling the familiar weight in his hands.

“Oh no, Nigel. We, _we_ have to do this.”

It took little to no persuading and John was on board.

“Can I even?” He began, draping a hand on his stomach as he did so.

“Yes, you can. They advise that you don’t at eight months so, best you move that ass of yours!”

Oh, John was well and truly on board. He could never refuse Nick anything. Why would he start now?

  
***  
  


Hues of graceful green blurred into beautiful blue, swirling throughout the tides. Laced with foam, the waves swayed into the sand, coating it with a dark shine. Littered with specs of the finest silver and pearl, the sand would glimmer as the vibrant sun rays danced their way down to touch it. To caress it, coating the shore in a gleaming gold.

There was truly no sight more beautiful than the waltzing waves languidly lapping onto the solitary shore, painted in miles of pure white sand. The sea and sand were united as one, sharing the spotlight. A fire was ignited between the two, tranquil waves constantly moving to ignite a passionate dance; a subtle push and pull. Rich with aroma, the sea was swept up by the breeze that it tangoed further in land, fresh and clean. The utopia was privy too, guarded by, stark white cliffs that dazzled in sun kissed light; being painted with a golden sheen. They inched closer to caress the crest of calming blue sky.

There was no other place on _Planet Earth _that could bring such ease. John was incredibly grateful to feel the delectable warmth of the sand under his toes, the wind tousle his hair, the simmering sun to kiss his skin for a second time. A time he knew would be as memorable at the first.

John breathed in and held a deep breath of fresh air, the salt that littered it, before letting out the exhale; limbs loose and smile breaking free.

His beauty, that of the sea and the shore, were to be captured by Nick. Harnessed, contained. The photographs were special, they would show a precious glimpse into his life; heart, body and soul in a way that no photographer would have caught before. John was sure he had never opened himself up as much as now, as he was about to; as a small, solitary disruption, finishing touch, to the scenic painting that was crafted all around him.

Searching for Nick’s lean silhouette, John found him propped up beside a small shack, reminiscent of the one from _Night Boat_, putting out his cigarette. He wore a tank top, a sight that John hadn’t been privy too since ’82; exposing those thin arms that were already beginning to colour. Nick caught his smile, knowing that both sets of eyes were shining behind the darkened frames.

“You really do look _incredible_, Johnny.” Nick began, voice light as he beckoned John to him. “The paint job is exquisite.”

“If you do say so yourself.” John stated, cocking his eyebrow and trying to bite back his laughter.

“Yes, I believe I just did.” Nick removed his luxe sunglasses to unveil his nude lids and pastel pink cheeks.

Nick’s gear was littered all around him, two cameras and a sea of fancy lights and equipment that John had come to recognise over the years. He wanted these prints to be slick and clean, topped with an ethereal quality: a utopia; a world of vibrant colour.

Bending down to help Nick gather his things, John’s hands were batted away.

“Leave it. _You’re_ the model today, let me treat you in such a way.” He raised a sardonic blonde eyebrow as John began giggling uncontrollably. “Try not to get used to it.”

“All right. You’re the _Master_ Bates.” John let it linger, a touch of mocking in his voice. “Don’t cock it up.”

“When have I ever cocked up photographs of _you_, Johnny?”

John was silent, shaking his head. It was true, there hadn’t been a single session that John hadn’t come to love, in which John was in awe of Nick and his camera tricks and his talent.

His muse always shined, beautiful and refined, on camera and the photographer always beamed, painted lips and lidded eyes couldn’t hide his joy, behind it.

Together they roamed the beach, feet slightly sinking into the sand. Nick had already found the perfect location, in which John would contrast the coast and hold his own as a spectacle in his own right.

John took his cue, following the soothing sounds of Nick’s voice as he guided him, steadied him, all to help him achieve his best.

With a swift movement John removed his satin black jacket and let his sunglasses follow, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes as the sunlight bled into them. He unveiled his smooth skin, coated in swirls of daring red and black. The brush strokes were long, wild and free, to define every muscle and to enhance every curve. His face was lovingly caressed in colour, patterns almost tribal like as the noir defined his cheekbones and the ruby stained his lips. His eyeliner was pristine, thin lines forming an Egyptian eye, with fearless wings that broadened his pupils and flaunted his enhanced lashes. His lips were stained in an old _Dior_ favourite.

He wore jet black PVC underwear that shimmered when they caught the light, bound tight to his skin. Silver chains weaved their way through; adding a touch of edge. His black bangles dangled from his wrists, interrupted by a blinding silver one that was encrusted with noir stones. A band was wrapped around his right arm, topped with small spikes adding more of a punk feel to John’s already abstract look.

John was a painting, bought to life by the slick dot and line work that coated his pale skin. The strokes were skilful, artistic, each flick of Nick’s wrist had created tender patterns that swirled down his chest. There was nothing fixed about it, a complexity that would both intrigue and leave the beholder in awe, wondering what they might find. Each pattern provided a new insight, a new bout of creativity that no pair of eyes could miss it: the masterpiece. John and his daughter, glowing in his iconic colours, stripped bare and gleaming against the white sand.

Nick admired his handiwork, smoothing down John’s gelled hair; having added inches of volume to the already vibrant mullet. It was tinged with scarlet, reminiscent of the early days, matching the paint that ran down his arms and legs. He had the blonde highlights that Nick had recommended so many months ago, to perfectly frame the colour of his face.

John truly was a work of art. Nick, the artist, couldn’t have been more proud of his baby brother in that moment. He was a true spectacle, John, a powerful and abstract movement that defined both men and their visions so well.

“Does it, you know uh, say _Rio_?” Stuttering, John found his voice.

With a sly look, Nick brandished a compact mirror with diamond encrusted edges. He held out a deft hand, angling it to John’s face.

John stared lovingly into his own reflection, a regular occurrence but this time it was different. More special, more personal and oh so John. Oh so John and his rockstar daughter: _dancing on the sand, showing all that they can._

“And when she shines she really shows you all she can.”

He let himself get lost in Nick’s silken voice. John stood proud, chest pushed out and head held high as he was captured on all angles. He pouted, he threw his head back. He smiled, he laughed. He let Nick entwine his limbs in a rich black chiffon, metres of fabric flowing behind him in the cool sea breeze.

“Oh Rio, Rio, dance across the Rio Grande.”

Two huge hands came to rest on his stomach, atop of the PVC, perfectly framed by the flowing fabric. The swirls dusting his skin danced in all directions. John’s lined gaze was piercing; intense, looking straight into the lens as the flash captured the mystery of his look again and again.

“Very Reema. I think she would be proud.” There was a touch of affection, of nostalgia in Nick’s voice as the camera flashed again.

Soaking up the sand, smile burning bright, John radiated confidence and artistry yet he still felt masculine. The nods to his wardrobe, his personality, all wrapped in a fine vinyl clad bow with hanging chains were different and alluring. The nods to his daughter, the nickname he had given her and all the memories of the Rio shoot came flooding back to him. The same island that welcomed him, the same sunlight and waves.

John wouldn’t have had it any other way. He couldn’t thank Nick enough, the weekend was a whirlwind.

For old times sake, even though Nick still felt queasy and John still wasn’t particularly a fan of them, they rented a yacht. Although this time, it was John throwing up over the edge. Not the most pleasant but still, he was laughing about it.

And besides, neither man could pass up the opportunity to have John pose looming over the edge with his lanky arms outstretched. The chiffon interweaved and splayed out behind him as he leant forward, embracing the feeling of such freedom; such fun.

John hadn’t smiled so damn much in forever that his cheeks hurt. He hadn’t been able to see so clear, knowing what he wanted, in a long time.

There was no other place on _Planet Earth_ that had bought John a peace like Antigua did. Like Antigua was doing now all over again, for Nick and John. For Nick, John and his little bird of paradise.


	24. White Glass Splinters Lie So Deep In Your Mind

Painted lips crashed together as John was backed into the mirror, soft hands prying and ripping his seams. Cocking a leg up, he bought the body closer, licking up all the liquid amber that coated his tongue. He swirled it, prodded into it, lapping up as much of the drink as he could.

His moans were swallowed, his pants stolen from his throat and he was being stripped. The floor was littered in leather, oversized trench coats, socks and boots as John was pushed to the king size bed. He let him take the weight, falling to his back and submerging himself in the pristine teal and golden sheets.

“Monsieur Taylor, it appears as though you could use some.” The accent was mystical, rhythmic, that it took John a moment to decode it. “_Help_.”

He nodded over and over, a lonesome hand on himself proving futile.

His head felt heavy and the alcohol was clogging his mind. It battled with the powdered salvation no longer scorching so vastly through his hot, aching veins. Begging for a top up. For another hit. His brown eyes were blown wide, devouring gaze doused in pure lust.

“C-can’t.. I’ve gotta, ngh, _gotta_\- have” John muttered, moaned, whined.

“What do you want, sir?”

John’s bottom lip trembled, his whole body did. The breaths were coming too fast, too shaky, and his head bobbed. Twitched, darted from side to side.

“_Crack_.” He motioned to the table, hand jittering.

The body peeled himself up, diving headfirst to the golden encrusted bedside table. John rose to his forearms, panting heavily, desperate to ignore the twitching. The fire simmering out down below.

There it was, shining, drawing John to its forbidden flame. Angelic, heavenly, glistening as the light caught it. The small bag did nothing to hide that beauty, it amplified it. The heathen. It was dangled maddeningly inched from John’s face, his jaw slack and eyes glossing over.

“A million.. magic crystals” John rasped, holding a quaking arm up, “painted p-_pure_, ugh, pure and white.”

His skin was littered in sweat, his greasy fringe already sticking to his forehead.

“A multi million euros ah, almost.. almost overnight.” His voice was small, cracking.

The bag of white oblivion was dangling inches from him, taunting, that John bolted upright to chase it. The teasing hand waved it side to side, up and down, and John pranced like a jungle cat. His grin was feral, determined.

He deftly avoided the _Smirnoff_ bottles littered around his feet.

“You wanted me to do.. _anything_ to you. Am I correct mon chér?”

John dived forward, barking out a “oui.”

The bag will still out of reach. John was rocking back on his heels, irritably tapping his fingers atop his thigh for the sake of moving.  
  


“Go easy on me, us.. yeah. _Us_.” He motioned to his stomach.

“It is your hard earned euro, yes?”

“Pound.. _oui_” this time, it was breathless. “S’il vous plaît.”

Gritting his teeth, John ripped his attention from the precious powder that caused his heart beat to race and head to spin. He nodded through the nausea.

“On your back, hands behind your head, legs open.”

John struggled to get back onto all fours.

“Keep quiet, mon chér.”

John nodded, acting like he knew what he had addressed him by.

“You move, I keep this.” The bag was taunting him, the devil, making his mouth water with the promise of the great rush.

John groaned as his head collided with the pillows, rich with golden lace and diamanté. He hummed, whined, grinding deeper into the plush mattress.

Tipping his head back he exposed the tender underside of his jaw and it was immediately nipped, bitten. His neck was attacked, leaving tainted marks behind: all coated lovingly in hot red.

Empty bottles coated the bed in a silver sheen, next to the quivering heap of limbs beside it. John knocked the ashtray off of the bed.

He had two huge hands running up his legs, nails raking, plummeting to the cock that bobbed in between them: an aching want, he couldn’t deny. John kept his arms up above his head, he didn’t dare to move them. Exposing his tender underarms sent shockwaves through him as they were touched, prodded, clawed at. He groaned deep and throaty, tipping his head further back and coaxing his hips up in a forceful grind.

“_Poofter!_” John spat as the precious contents were dropped onto him, his collar bones.

He tried to buck the body off but he was much stronger, deftly avoided his stomach as he sniffed. Inhaled a sharp, deep, whiff of the snow.

“Asshole, I.. I fricking paid top, ugh, top dollar for—”

“—_Pêdéraste!_”

John’s pitiful whine was the only response as another precious line was snorted off of him.

His leaking member twitched between them, a hard and well toned stomach brushing maddeningly against it. John yelped, jerking his hips into the soft hand that really betrayed the soft strokes John knew he couldn’t deal with. He was too alert, too stimulated, thrusting erratically into the touch.

“P-please.. just, fuck, _do_ it!” He winced at his immediate change in tone.

It had to happen and had to happen quick. Now. Right now. The pleasure radiating from down south was violent and intoxicating, affecting him deeper than all the other lovingly toxic substances swirling through him. It gave him a new lease on life, bleeding into the night.

“Give me the damn—”

John was screaming, the sound raw and uncut; whining his way through it. Those hands were ruthless, merciless as they milked him dry. His lips were claimed and his tongue swirled, swallowing saliva and stealing breaths that John battled to muster. John hastily broke away giving into his screaming need for air, panting into his neck as he tried to regain control of his pulse.

“The f-fuckin’, Christ... gimme the—”

The hand job had left him winded, heart pumping too fast, he was sure he couldn’t take it. The lack of drugs circling through him felt too strong, too overpowering, the little alcohol had to be savoured, cherished. Within moments, his world came crashing down again, over and over, as he choked, gagged.

“_Coke, _you cunt!” He spat.

With a sudden strength, the torture proved too much. John lurched his weight to one side, groaning as he was pinned. He fingered a bottle, hands slipping down its neck and bringing it to him.

The glass shards rained down on him, the blood followed, painting his skin a vile crimson. The body collapsed atop of him, crushing his stomach. John groaned as he felt little trickles run into his mouth, as their heads collided. He knew glass was in him again, his legs and hands.

John didn’t move. The body lay limp above him, staining him and his sheets. The glass framed them, their cocaine-raving mess.

He was spitting back blood, cackling as he heaved the body off of him. He sprung up, like a wolf, hungry for that bag. The bag that was beckoning him, it’s little remaining contents screaming to be chopped and huffed. No mercy.

He crawled and glass sliced his skin, falling off of the bed as he retrieved his prize. The lines were cut unceremoniously on the floor, seeping into the carpet. He didn’t have a straw so up it went, au natural. John jumped a foot into the air, limbs flailing and head ticking wildly. His mouth was open, frothing, eyes dark. _There was plenty more where that precious mound had come from,_ he reminded himself, pawing for his next batch.

Fishing out another bag he yanked it open with his teeth, desperately licking the remnants that transferred to his quaking fingers as he tipped it out. All of it. Atop of the bleeding gigolo.

Diving back in for his straw and a proper blade, the lines were cut: all jagged edges. No finesse, no time to focus.

His veins were screaming in bliss, the euphoria was merciless and painful as John shook, falling to his knees. The precious white was heaven sent, everything. He pawed at it, savouring it, spewing incoherence and moaning as he took a final stand.

Falling forward, hands plummeting into the sea of glass, he huffed a final whiff of powder. He convulsed, feeling weightless and heavy all at once before lurching himself back onto the bed: unaware of where he may land.

He couldn’t feel any pain, any piercing glass. He could see blood tainted sheets but he couldn’t feel any on him.

Or maybe he did. Maybe his hands were covered in it. Maybe they would always be covered in it but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the crystals that were caught in the flow, sticking to it, gliding their way down the streams to him. To his quivering mouth and twitching nostrils.

He wouldn’t be needing sleep but that was okay. He didn’t bleed out either. John didn’t know what was happening, he just let himself be the wave that crashed onto party shore. Tomorrow didn’t matter. If he made it, great, if he didn’t… also great.


	25. You Belong To The Hands Of The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my good god: Twenty five chapters, and over 50k. Bloody hell! I never imagined this fic would last so long and be so in depth. But then again, I didn’t see it amounting to much but I’ve definitely proven myself wrong.
> 
> I’d just like to take a moment to thank you all again for sticking by me and believing in me and my strange, little head here. I can’t thank you guys enough for all the love this fic has received, it’s like my baby now. It really means so much to me, this canon, more so than a birthday or a pretty view... ;)

John was far enough gone that although his mind was heavily clouded, running on pure adrenaline and riding out his euphoria: there was something wrong. Something different.

He took in the scene, trying to cling to the more muted images as his mind played cruel tricks on him. A heap on the bed, coated neon. Flecks of stuff coating the sheet, tinted black. His best friend, white and pristine, was waving him over for another for a delicious taste.

He didn’t take it.

John fell to his knees, quivering all over as the tears streamed down his face. He bought a hand up to wipe them away and screamed, his hand was already wet. The liquid was thicker, darker, covering his whole palm. His other looked the same. He shot glances back over both, comically, mouth sputtering nothing in particular as he tried to make sense of it all.

Why his knees hurt. Why he was surrounded by glass. Why his hands were stained. Why he couldn’t stop crying.

Why there was a man out cold atop of the bed.

“Oh my fuckin’ God!” He barked, face flush and breaths coming too quick.

He knew he was naked, his body shuddered at the feeling of what they must have done. What he must have let happen.

Cash littered one bedside table, an ashtray and his beloved straw and blade on the other.

John knew immediately who that was. Who he had requested, _bought_ for the night.

He screamed his throat raw.

Fumbling to get to his feet, he winced as he felt his own drug raving blood trail down the insides of his legs. His knees were red, bruises starting to set in.

He stumbled back into his leather trousers, they were growing tighter day by day but he couldn’t part with this pair just yet, he shucked on his pattern shirt and traipsed his way to the door. Trying to be quiet he slid into the hallway, numbers blaring in his mind. Room numbers.

**7.**

His voice was small, choked off. His hands felt weak but knocked with force.

**6.**

“Nick, _Nicky!_ Please.. somebody open up, help me!” He chanted, over and over.

**0.**

There was no answer, dead as a door nail. Growling, he kicked the door before falling into it: head resting by the eyepiece.

**9.**

“Nick.”

John yelped as the door flung open and his body was sent crashing to the floor. Chancing a look upwards, he tilted his head and shook his greasy bangs from his face. It hurt, the sight was blinding and he could’ve sworn the silhouette was moving wild. Fast, dancing or something. Whatever it was it flashed bright, blue and black and blue and black.

Tear stained cheeks flushed even darker, he struggled to scramble to his feet. John knew, drugged up mind or not, that those weren’t Nick’s colours. He would be flashing neon pinks and purples. A fuchsia so blinding that John could spot him a mile off and stumble his way over.

Before he could comprehend it there were two strong hands on him, hauling him up. He was guided to a chair, a towel was placed down before he slumped into it. John cocked his head back and eyed the trail, the trail of scarlet liquid that coated the cream carpet; following him in. Taunting it, making the devils presence known.

“Just _clean_ it, get it off” he stammered, “all of it, get it.. _off!_”

His water banks had burst again, long before he realised it. John was in a true state of panic, repeatedly shoving his blood stained hands in his face and yelling. The voice tried to calm him down and steady him and his breathing but John wasn’t having it. There was too much panic thrumming through that voice too, it wasn’t the usual cool and collected tones he needed. The reality check: the detective of his hellish crime scene. 

“_Help me._” He breathed, voice timid and pathetic.

_You see I’m Falling Down?_

John flung his body forward, back arching, tears coating that neck. He didn’t dare to touch him, to stain him, to downgrade him so. Hands averted, John let his reeling mind lay still for a moment, still a victim to the the trashing colours and thoughts that were tearing him up from within.

“Please just” his voice was a mere croak, “help me, _help me_ get it fucking off!”

He ground his head deeper into that strong shoulder, unguarded and bare. The skin was soaked as John cried over and over, body quaking.

“Help me just.. get _this,” _he waved his hands, the painful reminder, _“off_ of me!”

He was told to get into the bath, he had to be examined for further injuries. Following his lead, John latched himself to the body as together they stumbled into the en-suite. John came face to face with his ghostly self: eyes too dark and skin too pale that he could see his veins popping through. The only colour.

John let himself be stripped, more shards of glass and blood droplets coating the tiles as he did so. He groaned in pain as his leathers were yanked off, it became evident that glass was slicing his calf.

John listened to the voice trying to keep him calm. Pulling it up to his lips, he bit into his shirt with a muffled scream as the piece was yanked from him. Then again on the other side, blood pouring out and pooling between them.

The water was running and John stood before it, head down and shaking life a leaf. The other pair of eyes were averted as he hobbled in, slipping and catching his drugged up self on the golden, rusty tap before he sent his body plunging into the soak.

John watched with interest as the water slowly bled into red, swirling about him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t wash himself. He was too shocked to do so; long limbs hanging out of the tub. Lifeless. He just sat there solitary, hunched over, only breaths and his cries audible. Pointless.

He was being spoken too, not that he heard much of it.

John let his weight be taken, a sponge and the soapy water rubbing at his hands. He lay limp, as he was scrubbed over: cheeks aflame and eyes watery. His mouth hung open, the odd whine his only response to the ministrations. John couldn’t turn his head. He sat with a razor sharp focus on the swirl of the water, turning brown, lapping up his skin.

  
Was he paralysed?

He felt possessed, drenched in guilt and looking such a wreck. The sight of him was inhuman, not moving and having to be cleaned like that. To be scrubbed. Like it would just wash his sins away.

He began to slip further into the Dead Sea, submerging himself in his own filth and the blood that stained him.

Voices were yelling, since when was there more than one? Hands clawed at him, grip faltering under his slick skin. They were begging him to speak, to keep his head above the water. To not be frothing at the mouth, to not be jittering and twitching: splashing about. John felt himself slipping deeper, water inching up his hair, head tipping back.

Voices were blaring, the sounds merging and going straight through him. They were talking to a stone wall, with a frozen gaze. Mouth open, foaming. Palms up, in surrender.

He hit the back of his head hard as finally, he disappeared beneath the murky water. The dull thud was the only thing John had heard, was the last thing John heard as he submerged himself in the deep, lost in the loneliest of nightmares.

***  
  


He was delirious, really. Being driven further into insanity by how little he could remember then thoroughly torturing himself over the gruelling details that he could.

John lay wrapped in a blanket given to him by the paramedics, outside the hotel. He was slumped on the stairs, hunched over and desperate to remain covered.

He couldn’t have imagined a worse (Re)_Union Of The Snake_. Not at all.

Three pairs of condescending eyes were on him, devouring him, in anything but pity. Another pair were shielded but his mouth was zipped to a fine line: voicing everything those beady eyes couldn’t say. John didn’t dare look at them, any of them, so his gaze remained on the ground. Pointlessly averted; screaming his guilt from the rooftops.

He knew he was being spoken too, there were too many people with too many questions all barking at him in a language he didn’t know and would never understand. Clinging to the frequent mention of his name, first, middle and last, he let his running thoughts be dulled by the screech of the shrill siren. The haunting reminder of what he had caused. The damage, the stress and pain. He had been deemed okay, patched up well but that didn’t stop his bleary eyes catching sight of the ambulance as it sped away into the dead of night.

  
How he hadn’t voided his guts in front of them all, tainting the hotel grounds deeper, was beyond him.

Crowds had formed, management and show runners, hotel staff and crew. They were all barking at him in a frenzy. John kept his eyes down, biting into his cuticles. He had already bitten into his bottom lip so hard that it bled, his fingers weren’t too far behind.

“You belong to the hands of the night, huh?”

John searched for the voice, failing miserably.   
  


At some point he let two sets of hands haul his weight and help him to stand, waving about his midsection.

He was turned on his heel and coaxed back to trudge up the steps although each movement proved hell on the stitches he wasn’t sure he had even had. Together, they hobbled back into the hotel, backlit by the rising sun which cast a gleam to awaken the crime scene. A desperate attempt to paint the red in gold, something happier and worth seeing. John had no clue who was holding him up and didn’t want to know: he kept his head down and let them guide him, guide Rio, to what was hopefully a room free of the guilt, blood and glass. To a bed, warm and inviting, not repulsed by his stench of shame.

John knew he had broken far more than just a single bottle that night. He didn’t stop to think just how many bonds, hearts, could no longer be patched up: hanging on the far too thin, white line.

***  
  


When John graced the world with the sight of his darkened pupils, he didn’t recognise the room. It was similar to his, in terms of _colour and shape_ but the atmosphere… was wrong. Was all wrong. Too pure, loving and inviting for him to be a part of. Whatever utopia he had stumbled into, he had set ablaze with his wrath.

Bringing a hand up to his head he winced, it hurt. Prying open his sore eyes again he was covered in a sea of white, peeking out from under his dressing gown. He noticed plasters and gauze; bandages and tape. White fabric stained, white fabric disgraced.

He hauled himself into a ball, burying his head and letting his beaten hands run up his beaten legs. He hissed at the pain, unable to recognise the true cause. Tipping his heavy head up he tasted cotton in his mouth and groaned upon running up his calf. It was bandaged, that blood was real.

John looked to his hands again. That blood wasn’t his. It never was.

Groaning, it finally hit him: he was alone. He couldn’t comprehend it, a ringing in his ears drowned out every coherent thought he may have had. He splayed his huge body out again, this time bringing his hands to settle atop his chest. They ran down, over his bump and hovered there. He sighed as he let his hands rest atop of Rio, a kick bringing him back down to Earth.

A single, solitary tear burned his cheek, falling slowly, trailing down to land on his wrist. On his black bangles. He held Rio tighter.

“I’m.. sorry baby,” John held back his cries, poorly, “Daddy is.. so incredibly _sorry_.”

He bought his knees back up, struggling into position. He buried his head again, soft cries falling from his lips. They too tasted like iron, having been bitten over and over.

“You d-, ugh, you deserve so much.. so much I, I can’t.. _can’t_ give you!” He screeched, “I cant even.. even now. Can’t get you through this, when you’d need me most.” His voice trailed off, he stifled it with a sob.

  
John took to rocking back and forth, humming. The faint lyrics, raw, dropped from his lips. Bruised and chapped.

“Don’t ask me why” he began, voice small, “I’ll keep, _keep_ my fuckin’ promise, melt the fuckin’ ice.”

  
There had been numerous occasions in which John questioned his mortality. How he managed to maintain it, a lust for life that has simmered out years ago.

“And you wanted.. wanted to dance, so I asked you to dance but” he hastily wiped at his eyes, “fear is in your- _my_ soul.”

Why he kept getting chance after chance and blowing them. The blow and he, he and the blow: blowing them.

“Some people call it a.. shit, a _one night stand, _don’t they Simon, but we” he hiccuped, “w-we can, _can_ call it..”

Maybe John truly had nine lives but he couldn’t recall how many near deaths he had had: what precious number he had inched down too. How much longer he had, why he kept doing this.

“_Paradise_.”

His hands were quivering, struggling to find comfort having lost his daughter’s stabling rhythm.

“Don’t.. say a prayer.. for me, Rio. _Never_ do that. I don’t, fuck, don’t bloomin’ deserve it.”

John couldn’t help but question every divinity, every master of his fucking universe: Why he kept being saved?

“Save it.. _Simon_. Simon, save it till the bloody morning after.”

Who even wanted him here anyway? Why did he deserve to be alive? Why was he bringing a child into this? How could he keep her alive, when he could barely do so himself?

Why did John keep being saved? 


	26. That Fatal Kiss Is All We Need

**DAY: MAY 18**

**TODAY IS: SHOOT DAY** ****

The entire operation was a complete mess, in shambles. The ideas had flown in from far and wide and were to be ripped apart by two duelling sides: East versus West, Soviet Union versus the United States.

The British versus everyone.

**YOUR NAME IS: JOHN**

Plus they unfortunately had a target asset, who would be set ablaze in the midst of the flame. From both sides.

There were always complex strands, multiple narratives: twists and turns; fallbacks; failing those who are destined for the win and plots blowing up in the unsuspecting audience in these sorts of stories.

The binary opposition between the bad and the good; heaven and hell. Hero and villain. Those who would be saving the world from inevitable danger, martini in hand and _Walther PPK_ in the other; versus those who would take a bullet through the head, whilst tied down, held underwater, strapped to a moving train, battered and bruised: if they let any precious, classified detail slip past the blood in their mouth. If that person let anyone down, their life would be worthless, hanging in the balance.

They would be falling victim to their own sides said ‘flawless’ regime.

They were on two teams, polar opposites. One dressed in drab, black, heavy trench coats and sunglasses, fingerless gloves and sleeves rolled high. Dripping in sex, dripping in danger. Their demise was _a dust cloud on the rise_, whether they liked it or not.

The other team were dressed in fancy trench coats in a luscious cream. Their colours were striking, a classic pinstripe, showing their stance. Their good nature, a wholesome heart that will fall onto the wrong side of the tracks.

He had a role to play, supposedly, suited and stylish. Clothes as dark as the night and far too revealing. Trying to hide in multiple layers, thankful that it was fashionable, his body should be somewhat concealed. A mystery, an enigma as to what lies underneath.

_Well, actually, captain, I'm with anything but the British Secret Service... apparently._

A stench of doubt in the air, a danger that loomed about them both. All but dooming them from the start, it was just written that way.

Civilians taking a leisurely stroll up the monument would be targeted, obliteration on ones mind as the gunshots flung back to the innocent: in a poor man’s attempt to destroy the target asset. The stowaway, the biggest threat.

_The name’s Taylor. Nigel Taylor._

_Sounds shit. _

  
_The name’s Taylor. John Taylor._

_Even worse. No one’s gonna buy it, you fucker._

The bullets would ricochet back to John, it was just written that way. In the script, sure, yet it didn’t stop the stars alignment to target the poor Gemini: blazer clad and stomach out. Wind tousled hair a mess, tiredness in his eyes. He’d be playing it cool, from the dark side, dancing into the fire of those of _Arcadia_. The good, heaven sent agency to destroy _The_ _Power Station_ from within: By taking out its two leading members.

_My department knows I'm here. When I don't report, they'll retaliate._

_If you, Nigel, are the best they've got, they're more likely to try and cover up your embarrassing incompetence._

_You really know how to corner me don’t you… You can count on it, Zorin… wanker._

John was more than convinced that he was the first unholy kill. The first casualty would have the most tremendous of deaths: the budgets were still high and the creativity was still flowing; the deaths would wain as the totals increased beyond control.

John would be met by Simon, with _A View To A Kill, _indeed.

***  
  
  


Tension was rife, the air was thick with hatred, tainted with an awkwardness that was choking from one angle and a true blessing from another. They all felt like foreigners, brushing past each other in a way that didn’t mean a thing, a feeling they had never known.

They were truly dancing around John, holed up in his own fire. He supposed he couldn’t blame them, the four of them having dealt with his flaming shit show he had ignited that night. That morning.

Pretty much the entirety of the decade, now ablaze with scorching flames.

John had truly never felt more alone, alienated, isolated in his own little telescope/secret bullet driven world. He spent the entire time head down, arms folded, eyes heavy and his coat meticulously draped over him. He didn’t even know why he was still in hiding, was there even a band member who didn’t know anymore?

Then, his pulse was raging so fast that he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t work out what had happened. Who was touching him, how many there were and what they had said. What he had muttered back, poorly defending himself and his daughter.

** _Dance into the fire._ **

He had been targeted, a mob.

He had been felt up, a sea of cocksure French Alphas on his tail.

** _That fatal kiss is all we need._ **

They targeted him, picked on him, taunted him for his image and status.

He had been kicked to the ground.

He was on all fours, struggling for breath.

** _Dance into the fire._ **

He was screaming and shouting, all at the foot of the tower.

He yelled for Andy over and over.

Andy came running.

** _The fatal sounds of broken dreams._ **

He struggled, couldn’t fight them back.

The brawl was growing violent.

Nick was there.

** _Dance into the fire._ **

He was being stripped.

A crowd gathered.

He was being wrestled, assaulted, somebody else had joined in.

** _When all we see,_ **

Andy was trying to wrench him free.

Nick was furious, hands tearing through the mess of limbs.

They forced John to standing, his jacket and shirt a pile on the floor.

** _Is the View To A Kill._ **

He was bound, held tight.

Andy let a punch fly.

** _When all we see, _ **

** **

The fight was on. John had never been that much of a fighter.

Neither had Nick.

** _Is the View To A Kill._ **

Nick screamed, the crowd were deafening, humiliating and judgemental all at once. John was backed into the foot of the tower, the cool metal leaving dents in his bare skin. There were men all around, punches thrown and kicking out, keeping him there whilst the guitarist and keyboardist took the fall for him. Again.

He heard another shrill voice, amongst the chaos. John couldn’t see him but he could feel him, the innocent presence who didn’t deserve any of this.

Roger was desperately trying to break the mob apart.

John memory was clogged, dulled by the ringing in his ears as he was thrown face first into the cobbles a final time.

“Get your hands off of him,” someone crawled, voice teaming with an uncharacteristic malice. “He’s _pregnant!_”

John nearly choked on his own blood.

He felt the figure looming above him, a voice so foreign and so familiar that John didn’t dare look up. He couldn’t move, mouth agape and panting hard. He didn’t want to move. He couldn’t be saved again, John didn’t deserve it.

“_Ill es enceinte!_” The voice barked, feral. “Didn’t you hear? _Connards!”_

Suddenly the white noise faded and he could open his eyes again. The crowd had multiplied, riddled with guards and a distant siren only meant more danger. The group of bastard men, the hooligans who had attacked and shamed him, were somehow now out of view.

“_Nous sommes enceintes, or,_ get your fucking mits off of him, assholes!”

The only thing John could remember was the cold, death stare that roamed all over him. His naked and bruised chest, the blood trickling down his cheek.

Those eyes were a shade he had never seen before, coated in God knows what. The fondness, bright and beaming blue was long gone and was frosty, hellish. His mouth was moving yet no sound came out, no mystical lyrics or soothing rhymes.

John rose to his feet, shaking, caught in those blue silver headlights. Well and truly blown out of the sky. He might aswell have been on the damn helicopter Simon had blown up.

_Luv?_

John was trembling harder, cheeks already wet that again he was frozen. He couldn’t pick up his clothes or respond to any of the hands that had wrapped themselves around his back. He couldn’t make out the state of them behind. It didn’t matter.

_Charlie, luv?_

The singer appeared ghostly, skin pale and eyes bugging wide. He was drowning within his trench coat, looking as though he had dropped a staggering weight. He too had blood trickling down the side of his face, splattered onto the inside of his collar, a screaming reminder of another hell John had put him through.

_I’m Holding Back The Rain, Charlie, just like you told me too._

Their they stood, all four of them, before him. Both sides, _The Power Station _and _Aracadia_, the communists and the heroes, were too easy to spot and segregate. No man dared to say a word, initiate a new fight- one closer to home, civil. Only jittering breaths were audible. Clothes were ripped and hair a mess, bruises were sure to settle.

  
They had all fought for John, hadn’t they?

John had no recollection of how it all happened other than at some point, head throbbing and finger tips raw after being gnawed at non stop, the five had been coerced into a single photo session. Two photographs of the band before the Eiffel Tower, Simon and Andy’s black eyes barely shielded behind their sunglasses. John had changed his jacket, he hadn’t found his first one.

It was surely the end, the final photograph. The final photograph depicting the fab five, beaten, worn down by each other and the levels they let each other drop down too.

John wasn’t sure how many more times he could dance into the fire like this, a victim. Terrified of his own shadow and those who dared to step into it.

His skin was drenched in anything but a rosey stain. Humiliation, guilt, self pity.

For the last time, he watched the four of them disperse. _Arcadia_ on one side and _The Power Station_ on the other.

One went left, one went right. And as for Roger, John’s breath was caught in his throat, there was a gruelling hesitation.

John caught the tearful glint in his chocolate brown eyes, dark circles so evident that they pierced through John’s own. He was haunting, poor Roger, a final goodbye.

John watched, cheeks coated in tears, as Roger turned right. Back into Paris, delving deep into the gothic fantasy of _Arcadia_. He was truly done, not just with John but with this. All of this. Taking sides, being the notorious democrat, being stuck in the middle.

John watched Roger walk away, hands shoved into his leather jacket and eyes landing anywhere but the floor, for what was surely the final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
“Ill es enceinte”  
He is pregnant. (in theory, of course that isn’t a proper cookie-cutter style saying for that I could just nab!)
> 
> “Connards!”  
Male assholes.
> 
> “Nous sommes enceintes”  
We are pregnant.
> 
> Apologies if I have made a mistake with the French, I’m a German student myself!


	27. Girls On Film (Got Your Picture)

Each band member had taken separate flights, some to Heathrow and some straight to Birmingham International. John had also heard through a noir, suit and tie styled grapevine that the _Arcadia_ boys were indeed planning on returning to Paris to finish the album. Even further from John. He headed straight for his lonesome London apartment.

John had been wracking his brain over the fight. But after an endless trail of thought he realised that what really mattered was that he had Andy, Nick, Roger and... shit. Simon. He had them all, all four, trying to help him one way or another.

Even though those feelings of companionship, brotherhood, whatever had definitely not lasted: John figured that was worth remembering. That was the important part, not what had happened to him. Not the assaults that men of his status were so damn used to that it scared them to traipse the streets alone at night or, left them petrified if they didn’t have a mate by their side.

When he really stopped to dwell on it, John quickly came to the conclusion that he had had it incredibly well- in some sense, there. He had the best security, always had some quivering young thing ready to get it on with him: through his gruelling heats; deepest cravings and dark desires. His Omega status was something he didn’t think he had ever truly publicised, Duran got enough crap as it is over their image. The makeup and all, the whole _fucking fairies_ thing. 

  
However, in the hopes of some wider form of acceptance, that was all about to change. He had spent far too many years trying to deny it himself, as Nigel, but now John was more than ready. He didn’t give two shits about his press. He constantly re-invented his image; hunting for a new sense of self. This was just like that, a new bout of creativity or something else pretentious as hell.

John didn’t look back, he didn’t need a second thought.

He looked forward, phone already to his ear and littered in papers. Contacts, agencies. Most of which were his second home, he couldn’t wait to be back: front and centre.

“All of them.”

“I mean it, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just get it out.”

“All of them, the ones you love are the ones I love.”

“Yes you.. I have. I have thought it through.”

“It’s time.”

“I’m bloody ready.”

“Couldn’t be more ready, so get on with it!”

***  
  


**“… _horrific famine continues to worsen. Fears are growing as it’s speculated, the situation is fast reaching breaking point. Not just in Ethiopia but now the whole of Af_—”**

“Christ.” John muttered, changing the channel with a flick of his wrist. “We don’t wanna be hearing ‘bout that now, do we Baby Taylor?”

He fell into the sofa, searching for _MTV_. He couldn’t hide his smile.

** _“… have climbed to the top of the charts. And finally, fans of the teen pop sensation—”_**

“—Thank you sex craved teens!” John barked out, hand diving into his pickle jar.

** _“—Duran Duran have had fans in a tizzy today as bass guitarist John Taylor reveals pregnancy to the world, flaunting his baby bump in his beloved red and black, in a stunning beach photoshoot. The teen pop idol posed near nude, covered in body paint and is already front page and centre on every UK pop magazine out there—”_**

“That we are, my dear!” John talked back to _MTV_, placing a warm hand atop of Rio.

_ _

_**“—Alongside the cryptic words, **Her Name Is Rio **taken, of course, from Duran’s 1982 smash hit album of the same name—”**_

The wall phone was ringing off of the hook yet John didn’t need to answer. He lay atop his plush leather sofa, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he heard each and every message play. He was sprawled out, content, feeling so fulfilled and self righteous all at once: well into his third pickle.

“Girls On Film! They look better! Girls On Film! Always smile!” He sang, just like the old days. 1979, when he and Nick were just staring out.

It was truly time to see what a sacred image could do, what immense power he still had.

“Girls On Film! They look better!” He raved, pointing to his own stomach as he sang, “Girls On Film! See them smile!”

***  
  


His questions were answered within hours. Copies were flying off of the shelves, the money was being raked in. John’s photographs were everywhere, plastered to every front page from _Tiger Beat _to _Teen Beat_. Double page spreads were glossy, flaunting him in his best light, music magazines too: from _NME_ to _Melody Maker._

He was on every entertainment channel in a special segment, featured in every entertainment news headline. John was everywhere, swirling red and black strokes coating his nude skin with grace. With a dare to be different, a chance to bear all. The tribal patterns shone bright, bringing a sense of summer to his already mysterious aura and such a revealing leather look.

He and Rio were to be plastered in every teenage girl’s bedroom, posters on their walls, magazine clippings framed, flexi books teaming with juicy details.

John noted every tabloid wanting to speak to him, barely hiding his glee, knowing full well the reporters would be camping outside his apartment door. John was already drafting his responses, careful not to spill too much but give just enough revealing gossip that they would be hanging on the black chiffon that blew merrily behind him and his daughter in the breeze, desperate for more.

The whole United Kingdom had finally been introduced to baby Rio. The love child would (hopefully) be adored by the press, opening up a whole new way of life for John. The best part of it all, how quickly his news had blown through the industry, actually came from an old classic, a dear friend.

John was tearing up on the phone, having pranced over to it, tiger-like, to ensure he took this extra special call.

“Are you.. Are you fuckin’ _serious_?!” He wiped at his eyes, smile beaming. “I actually, you really.. you really mean it?”

John screamed in happiness, elation, dancing around his living room like a right twat.

“Congratulations, Baby girl Taylor!”

He had only gone and beaten the _Smash_ _Hits_ record for top sales in one day.

His own record.

“We did it, Rio!” He pumped his fist in the air, yelling. “_We_ actually went and bloody did it, baby girl!”

He had beaten his own notorious record, outselling his own copies: white vest top clinging to his soaked skin as he took a dunk in the pool, by thousands. Back in 1982, John had single handedly become the most iconic issue, the most desired man to feature in any piece of treasured print media. All in one day.

He was on the highway right into beating the other record he had set. The same issue being the most sold… _ever_. Just like that.

_Smash Hits_ had never seen anything like it. Neither had John, or any of the other magazine companies who were creaming themselves over the profit he, his star image, his brand and rock star daughter were taking in.

Nothing empowered John more. The week was crazy, endless interviews and further propositions for photo shoots. John accepted every offer, the joy evident in his voice. He was wanted again, craved by the press, the star of a show in a way that he didn’t think was still possible. He was growing older, as were the fans, but there was something so comforting about it all. So welcoming, the wayward Taylor was being welcomed back, arms open, to those magazines who made him. To the industry he had taken by storm a mere four years ago.

John took a casual stroll down through West London, _Girls On Film_ blasting in his Walkman with no shame, embracing the odd May heat. His silken jacket hung open, flowing free, his shirt was tighter: framing his rounded stomach perfectly. It didn’t bother him that he was now helping to sell countless Omega maternity brands, the make up he wore in his photoshoot landing him a promotional campaign for _Revlon_. 

(Although it was alongside that Renée lady. And.. yeah. That shit was awkward. They truly looked awful, crazy patterned silk clothing fighting with malice to scream louder than all the teased hair! Her blonde locks were spiked so freaking high, somehow standing up completely unaided, that it looked like she was trying to signal a satellite from.. whichever country she hailed from. John couldn’t remember. Somewhere like Sweden. Denmark? His own mullet was mussed and teased violently, brown ringlets falling all over the place. They truly looked awful.. but he still tried to laugh about it. It was interesting, those photos probably wouldn’t haunt him or anything... Nah. He’d be just fine knowing those cringey Polaroid’s are now in existence. Totally)

John now stopped and posed for pictures on the street. The fans were so gentle and kind with him, something he had never really experienced when he stopped to think about it. He was drawing in immense crowds again, smiling and waving over those who loved and adored him. Those who were already coming to love and adore his rock star daughter.

Questions were thrown constantly at him, reporters sidling up to join him at the hip and he answered in kind. John had been very careful yet every time he read the fan speculations he laughed so hard that he gave himself the hiccups. The names were endless! A whole range of A-listers set on roster after roster, _No1_ to _Seventeen_ to good ole’ _Jackie_, as to who was the father. Who was the lucky sod that had gotten the _most fanciable man_ in Britain pregnant? Who was to claim John as the one, once and for all?

Within a week, it was global news. John was sent countless magazine clippings, interviews appointments, articles and call after call: demanding he speak out - from all over. In the US, he had put _Duran Duran_ back on the map. Their fame was beginning to swirl again, all around he and the child he was ready to bring into the world. He was headline news with fans screaming his name in Paris, Rome, West Berlin and Madrid, the tabloids were all over him all the way out to Japan. Oh Japan, how he longed to return there.

Every Duranie far and wide was captivated, enraptured, with John Taylor and his baby girl. John had never been happier, outing himself so. Of course it had to be grand, overpowering. He had knocked the media out of the water. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

It really did show him, the attention and demand, just how much power one image really had over a fan base. A generation, now privy to more and more of that sacred Antigua photoshoot. John continued to grow, continued to flaunt his baby body off in style. He and Rio were shining again. The cameras would be on him like hawks for the rest of the year and honestly, John didn’t mind. He was ready, more than ready to face the waking world again.


	28. Catch Me With Your Fizzy Smile

He plodded to his front door, trying to ignore the dull pain in his lower back. John was inching closer to June, inching closer to the seven month mark so he figured all this stuff was coming and would only worsen. He’d try to keep smiling about it. _It’s all for Rio, it’s all for baby—._

—John was also now convinced he knew her name.

Peeking through the eye piece, his grin broadened and his heart felt light.

_Finally, a Duran!_

“Ands!” John pretty much launched himself into Andy’s open arms, who was laughing at his sudden outburst.

“Christ Tigger!” Andy chuckled into his shoulder, “look how big ya gettin!’”

John disengaged with a sly look coating his pretty face. He tipped his head down, gaze running over himself before he rose back up to Andy. Andy, who had a firm smirk in place.

“You gonna let me in or have I just gotta stand here?”

John shuffled out the way, holding out a hand to guide Andy over the threshold, heading straight to fall onto his plush sofa.

“Why didn’tcha tell me you were still here?” John began, laying out some biscuits and tea atop of his sleek coffee table. “Thought you’d be well on your way back northeast by now.”

“Train leaves tonight.”

“Birmingham?” John nibbled his _Jammie_ _Dodger_, determined to savour its taste.

Andy noticed and chuckled. “Tigger, there’s plenty more of where they came from! No need to hold back the... jam” Then, quieter: “I’m going home, John.”

“Home?”

Andy cracked a small smile, “yeah, I’m coming home, on the _Night Train. _Not for long though, of course.”

  
“States are calling?”

“You know it, Johnny!”

After that the chat was light, thankfully, Andy managing to keep up colourful conversation and John was more than willing to roll with him. They were laughing about their days in New York, early days of French recklessness and debauchery. Andy also made a mental note of every time John had to excuse himself to use the bathroom and only laughed harder.

“You get used to it.” Was John’s answer as he rose to his feet, smiling and he shrugged. “Baby wants what she wants.”  
  


“All she wants is, uh, the bathroom?”

John cocked his head, a little lightbulb going off somewhere not too deep inside.

“_All. She. Wants. Is_-” he punctuated it with a throaty moan, hand plummeting to palm his crotch, for the fun of it. “The fuck knows.”

“Nobody told me, I’d be gettin’ dinner and a show!” John rolled his eyes at Andy’s words, finding it impossible to hide his smile.

Upon his return John felt that the mood had shifted. Both cups of tea were long gone and Andy seemed more relaxed, lazing atop the leather in his own sea of it.

“You know John, I” he began, removing his sunglasses.

_Oh shit._

John immediately felt queasy. Andy removing them meant something drastic, he was stripping himself of that protective layer, forcing himself back into the real Duranie world.

_Ands, don’t do it._

Although John reminded himself that during their time together in New York, Andy had hardly worn them. Not on stage as such, or just when bumming about in the studio. That thought was oddly comforting.

Whatever it was meant that the guitarist was taking a big step, somehow. John knew him well enough to recognise that: the change in his voice; the sudden fondness that those light eyes held.

“John, I..” Andy paused as he felt the weight of the sofa dip, “I just wanted to say that I, we, me and Tracey, are so damn… _proud_ of you, what you’re doin’.”

_You’re what of who, now?_

John’s head quirked up.

  
“I know it’s not easy, no child ain’t easy believe me! You think it was easy walkin’ into my spare room most days and seein’ all the gifts from the fans? All the stuff they gave Andy Jr?”

  
He let his gaze fall back to Andy, roaming over his black satin and chains that dusted his shoulder. Mouth agape, tongue fumbling, he failed at formulating a coherent response.

“Christ Johnny, lighten up!” He heard Andy laugh and found himself immediately feeling more at ease.

They sat so close that their knees were touching, leather on linen, and John focused his gaze on Andy. He found himself leaning forward, hoping that the look in his eyes would egg him on, spur Andy to explain himself. John was clinging to every passing breath, every heart beat as his own sped up.

“You know me, _Tigger_. I may bite but it’s all in good faith!”

  
_Well Nigel, he’s got you there._

John was shaking his head, then he cocked it. Andy just chuckled again. A shiver ran through John as he watched, with interest, a small and lean hand land atop his right shoulder. Right atop the scarlet satin.

“Those photos, man! You look even more fuckin’ _incredible_ than normal, you bastard.” John found himself grinning more through Andy’s words, knowing full well that his spirits were getting more than just a rise out of this. “Honestly, _Tigger_, we were flawed. I can’t believe you kept ‘em from me!”

  
_I kept them from everyone.  
  
_

John momentarily bit into his bottom lip, stifling a small chuckle. He couldn’t find the words so he just shrugged, a glimmer of something mischevious sparkling in his eyes.

“Way to take over the world, huh?” He rasped.

“You fuckin’ know it, Johnny.”

They fell back into step, laughter intertwining. John relaxed deeper into the plush of his seat, propping his feet up on the coffee table before them. He let his head fall back so he was staring forward and slightly up towards the ceiling.

“Ands, do you- uh, think I did the, uh, right thing? With those photos? Publishing them, you know.”

John lolled his head to the right, finding Andy had too sank deeper in beside him.

“Absolutely, you’re findin’ _your own way._” Singing the final words, Andy waggled his eyebrows and John chuckled, his chest shaking slightly. “It’s pretty damn worth it, if you ask me mate.” Andy continued, voice tickling John’s ear.

“I really owe Nick for those, you know.” John stated, after a beat. “More than just a box of wine.”

Andy didn’t say anything, he only smirked. It went without saying to him, that Nick was indeed the brains behind that operation. The first part in Antigua anyway.

“I still can’t believe you got to kill him… wait no. Scratch that. That Nicky _let_ you kill him. Blowing up his pretty face.”

“I guess that’s _Power Station _for ya?!”

Andy was smirking at the notion of what John had implied, of course John wasn’t wallowing in those ideologies alone. Being blind and strutting round with an accordian because… reasons. It was 1985 and all that had made perfect sense. Maybe John still wished he was ‘working’ undercover, basking behind ‘Chez Tayloire’ (yes, the _I_ made it sound French, he was told) and a load of cake that made his stomach rumble every time he saw Roger’s little faux truck... or was it ice cream?

“The perfect end nobody knew they so wanted, Ands. Guitarist versus keyboards, locked in the fierce gladiatorial ring of musical doom!”

“A+ for creativity there, man.”

“Plus models.”

“Not that you’re attracted to ‘em, these birds.” Andy rasped, chancing it.

Before John could voice any proper retort, Andy had cleared his throat and was already a step ahead on the road to cheering Johnny up, 101.

“I’m talking for freeeeeee, I can’t stop myself. It’s a _New Religion,_ oh!” Andy belted, always perfectly on key. The marvel.

Screw it, John pitched in the backing vocals with his hands coming into position as if on reflex. Plucking at imaginary bass strings.

“Somethin’ to seeeeeee.” John let it linger, trailing off with a chuckle. “I can’t help myself. Baby, it’s a _New Religion!”_

“Fuck John!” Andy slapped his knee, the way John would when he was laughing himself hoarse, “nobody should let ya sing, solo!”

“Erm.. yeah, yeah. No one should.”

“Oh God. Nigel.”

“_Nigel?!_” John’s eye’s widened, comically. “Don’t let Nick rub off on ya anymore, man.”

“What did you do, Nigel?”

John kept quiet.

“What did you do, Johnny, to have us. Have us? What did you do to have us?” Andy waggled his eyebrows and poorly stifled his laughter at the look of shock on John’s puffy face.

He kept quiet, biting into his lip. John had no recollection of Andy knowing about that little… _other_ side project. The track wasn’t even finished yet! However Andy steamrolled on, no shame, before John could find the courage to call him out on it. 

“Johnny _Do What He Do_ to have you, have _me_. He do it all to have me!”

“Fuck you!” John groaned, letting his head drop into his hands.

“He do it all to have me!”

Then, screw it. Even more so this time. John swallowed his pride: “I Do, I Do, I Do, oh.”

Andy was cackling at John’s flimsy attempt at a cracking falsetto. That track truly was hilarious, not that John needed to hear that out loud right now.

They had all afternoon for that special, savoured torture.

They chatted about pretty much everything and anything. For hours, John was laughing himself hoarse over Andy’s stupid jokes and dirty anecdotes. It became clear pretty quick that they both were really missing _The Power Station _already: the easy going vibes; just being able to jam. Maybe they’d get together again someday, play some proper concerts now John’s secret was out in the open.

Although he wasn’t prepared to try and work out how touring with a newborn would go, he surely wasn’t opposed to such an idea. The guys deserved it, John didn’t want to steal any more incredible opportunities from them.

Around 18:00 and a box of pizza and far too much chocolate later, Andy perked up upon realising the time. John felt a pang in his stomach and found himself taking slow and laboured steps towards his front door. He really didn’t want to deal with another Taylor slipping through his fingers.

Front door key in hand, he fiddled with the lock but Andy stopped him: fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“You know where we are. If you need anything John, or you JT 2.0,” he nodded to his belly, with a chuckle, “call. Just _call_, that’s all I ask of ya, John.”

John bit back the tears as he threw his no longer so gangly arms around Andy’s tiny neck. As if on cue, as though he was Nick, Andy shushed him, rubbing small circles across John’s lower back. Right where the pains had been. How did Andy know to hit that spot?

“Tracey had the same thing, a little warmth down there will always help. Don’t neglect yourself of that self care stuff, mate.” Andy stated, uncharacteristically soft, into John’s ear as they parted. “Just call. Hell, sing and scream your way down the damn line! I worry about that little head of yours far too much, Johnny.”

Before John could respond, Andy was talking again. Just not to him. “And hey, _JT 2.0”_

“_Rio_.. wait, I like that!”

“Thought ya’d warm up to it.”

“Only _you_ can call her that, Ands. No one else.”

  
“What about _Tiny Tigger?_ There’s a whole list of where these came from, John.”

John sniggered, finding tears pricking at his eyes. He cursed under his breath.

“I love them both.”

At that Andy stepper closer. He reached a deft hand up and nudged John’s cheek. Swiftly, he whisked away a stray tear. John whimpered under his touch, finding himself leaning into it. Andy’s warmth and comfort, a feeling so beautiful that John had to fall into it. He knew it wouldn’t last, wouldn’t be so welcoming, forever.

“Now _hush_ John, let me get back to that beauty of yours.” John sniggered as Andy crouched, directly addressing his bulging stomach. “You look after him, kid. Keep him company, it’s all he can ever ask of ya, _Tiny baby girl, Tigger._”

“Crap.” Another tear snuck its way down his face.

Andy rose back up, holding out his arms. John wrapped himself in them nice and tight. They stayed like that for a few moments, only the typical brush of satin on leather was audible.

“Uh, Johnny.” Andy began, muttering into his ear. “_Northern Rail _waits for no man, the corporate bastards.”

John chuckled as he let Andy have his body back to himself again. He watched Andy slip out his door and immerse himself in the shadowy corridor, waving. John shut it, laying a hand to rest; taking a moment to breathe.

  
He perked up upon hearing a muffled but perfectly wretched voice.

“_Tell Me Why_, when I look into your eyes.”

John found himself smiling, mouthing along with the lyrics. He thought he remembered them although wasn’t sure why he did.

“I could love you, _Tigger_, till fur-ever!”

Fuck it, John was joining in. “When I look into your ey-ee-eyes!” Then yelling: “go catch your stupid train, stop pissing off my neighbours!”

_“I Might Lie!_ Your wish is my command, Mr J.”

John pulled away from his front door, a big smile now tugging at his lips. Eyeing the discarded pizza boxes he caught a whiff of it all, cursing as he already felt hungry again. _Really kid? That’s it, there’s nothing more!_ With a chuckle he swept up all the rubbish and plodded to the kitchen, head clear, feeling content. Oddly grounded.

At least there was still one Duran who wanted something to do with him. Andy really did have a heart of gold and, it wasn’t for the first time that John thought, it was a pity the world didn’t get to see that more often. A real shame. He had so much to offer the world, Andy, with his music. John truly wished him the best. He hoped they would be collaborating again someday, maybe even dare to share the same stage.

***  
  


The next couple of weeks were pretty uneventful and John was thankful for that little quiet after. He had a few interviews, a couple in his apartment and the odd phone in, another photoshoot and talks with some new sponsors over a fancy dinner thing at the Savoy. A little drink of courage here, a little powdered love there: no biggie. Rio didn’t seem to mind.

They weren’t the important bit, they failed in comparison to the re-introduction of another Duran.

_Thank fucking fuck for that._

Something within him, not too deep inside, felt like it had changed. A flick of a switch, a bat on the head and changes had to be made. He wasn’t entirely sure how or when but he had come to the realisation, having finally began to sift through some of those omega pregnancy books that Nick had so graciously been shoving in his face for about three months now, that holy shit. He didn’t have anything. No preparations had been made. No clothes for her, no cot. Nowhere to change her, a car seat… nothing. He flipped out.

John didn’t even want to think of the preparations for that day. The first was always late though, right? More often than not?

_The fuck are we talking first? That’s it, no more. No more after this one._

John figured it would have been hell trying to traipse through the likes of _Mother Care_ and _Beatties_ in downtown West London, a man like him. It was incredibly hard to just waltz into a _British Home Stores_ the way he had been doing for a decade or so, with women’s clothing in mind and not a care as to who thought it odd. But somehow, he managed to swallow his pride and coax his mother to come with him.

_Sometimes, mummy really does know best._

Jean was well and truly his rock there, knowing just what to pick up and what to put back. John insisted on paying, of course he did, he was more than ready to splash a pretty penny on his baby girl. She deserved it.

John near enough bought half the store. Cuddly toys, baby grows and booties with tiny little pink bows on that made John feel a little nausea but he could deal with it for the time being. Plus some weird pump thing his mother not so subtly hinted would help… relax him. Ease him into… something.

_She better explain that to me someday. And soon._

It went without saying that John would try and likely fail, then get Nick to save the drowning ship, to knit her something a little more well, John fucking Taylor. The colours felt wrong, too nice and neat but it was all that they had stand after stand.

He still didn’t understand the whole concept behind it. Set in stone that girls had to wear pink and boys had to wear blue. _What about those stuck in the middle, purple, torn between what was expected of them and a lust to defy the norm? Like I have and will power on to do so? _John thought as he fingered his shirt hem: from the _female_ maternity collection at _BHS_.

It was said, perhaps not quite written in stone, that once an omega had a child they would grow attached and become inseparable. Knowing exactly what to do, letting the maternal instincts kick in and stay that way. John was more than convinced that he was the forgotten runt, scared shitless as to how to hold her, feed her, settle her and be able to walk away as she slept. He had never stopped to really try and think about it before, all of that. The first few months. He had been so holed up in his own personal turmoil, jetting about the world and recording, that anything besides the here and now felt too foreign, too alien. Too hard a step to take, a vision so blurred and underdeveloped that he didn’t even want to develop it. The end result would likely be horrifying.

There would be nothing ordinary about his and John’s world but together, John prayed, they would learn to survive.

John would also anxiously await the day, slumped across the sofa with the TV blaring as he waited for his darling to return, that she would come running up to him and ask why can’t she live with grandma instead. Grandma Taylor, who knew about… yeah. Grandma, Nanny, Mamma Taylor.

_Mamma Taylor,_ John liked the way that sounded. _Absolutely beautiful._

_***  
  
_

At some point during that time he had finally plucked up the courage to call Nick. To see where they stood and all.

“You truly grow more stupid by the day.”

John was terrified that as soon as Nick registered his voice, John’s breaths, that he would slam the phone straight back down. He had anxiously woven the chord through his fingers, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“What, Nick?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Well, you really didn’t think I could stay mad at you, did you Ni— of course you did.”

John, rolling his eyes, surrendered. “You know I fucking did. I’m still stupid. God Nick, I honestly thought that… I, you know, that I had lost—”

“—Love it or hate it, in which I feel both strongly,” Nick sighed, all the sarcasm bleeding into a glimmering golden mush so strong that John felt a tingle _or is that me needing the loo again? _run through him.

“Shit, I missed what you said.”

There was a pause, John was full aware of Nick narrowing his eyes and wanting to flash him that pissed off expression for making him repeat himself.

“Nigel, although it pains me dearly to see you like this. You’re not going to lose me. It’s been far too long, I’ve grown quite accustomed to it.”

Smirking, “Quite _accustomed_ to it, huh?”

“You know it, wanker.”

It went without saying that his heart had jumped when he heard Nick laugh over the phone, his head felt light as he envisioned it: demon kohl eyes, betraying the angelic guise that with no amount of powder Nick could ever truly erase, his glossy lips quirking upwards.

It turned out that Nick was in Birmingham for the weekend, for reasons unknown. _It’s all unfinished business Nigel, so scram _he would probably say, something ‘too classified’ and sparkly for John to know about.

“Since when did glitter become only for adults, Rio?” He breathed, stifling a giggle.

However, John did manage to persuade Mr One Finger Rhodes to swing by him in West London on his way out, thankful for Nick heading back to Pairs via Gatwick which was not exactly round the corner mind... but oh well. John would splash out the cash for a black cab.

“Or for the freakin’ _limousine_.” He exclaimed, strolling through his apartment with a hand massaging his sore back. “But wouldn’t that draw too much attention? What do you think, Rio?” John paused, as a ‘aha’ style expression formed. “Oh well, Unkie Nick _is_ a big boy. He can deal with it.”

_Unkie Nick? Bloody hell, Taylor._

_***  
  
_

The keyboardist pawed through the endless stacks of baby grows and insisted on ordering them in terms of sizing and colour. In lieu of his own wardrobe system that in all the years John had known him, still baffled him on all ends.

_The colours, yeah. Okay, sure. That makes sense. The freaking level of sparkle and extravagance! Now that, that is pure Rhodes madness that’ll be matched by no man!_

Nick had smirked so damn hard upon picking up what was probably John’s most prized piece in the collection. A teeny tiny, blaring red biker jacket with pre-rolled up sleeves and shoulder pads. 

_What was the point in even bloody owning one if the shoulder pads didn’t reach one’s ears?_

“I have… _connections_” was John’s only response, grin plastered to his face.

“And you still feel the immense need to dress your child in leather trousers and bandanas?”

“…Yes.”

Nick just rolled his heavily lined eyes, turning to the sea of pinks and purples that littered the black bedspread. He noted that they were mostly all screaming neon and wondered just how John had managed that. What his mother must have said.

  
“Why not at least throw in a tutu skirt? A dainty aesthetic?”

John held up a tiny leather skirt in retaliation, with a wink.

The two of them had an absolute hell of a time trying to assemble the cot. The fucking thing bamboozled them both, taunting them with all its screws and hinges that just didn’t bloody well fit anywhere. Sure, John had never been much of a handyman (he was an artist- much preferring paints and pencils, thank you very much) and knew that Nick wasn’t ever really the manual labour type either so they were pretty much doomed from the start, weren’t they.

Eventually, they managed it. John celebrated with a pickle jar and chocolate, a combination he still found gross but unavoidable, whilst Nick busied himself with glittery paint samples.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ugh no.”

“Ugh yes. Come on Nigel.”

“I’m not having a freaking pink” John stopped, glasses cockeyed on his face as he squinted, “a uh, how you say G-Ge, Gela _Gala_ _Pink _bedroom. Too much glitter and cutesy things. Too gaudy, daring... even for me, Nicky. I’m not putting myself through that, I’ll be blind every damn time I walk in at night to feed her.”

“Not every child will love the shades _Fire Brick _and _Sangria_ being splattered onto their walls.”

“She, Christ.. she won’t have a freakin’ clue! When she speaks, I’ll ask her what she likes and take it into consideration.” John’s voice gained intensity, “For now,_ I Take The Dice_.”

“Don’t sing, Nigel. You know you’re not allowed to sing solo in my presence.”

“Yes Sir.” John muttered, eyes immediately falling back to the pink paints before him. “_Controller_, Sir.”

(He made a mental note to send Nick multiple copies of his next track, flaunting John’s debut solo career. Not that he really wanted to sing on it and all but that was a story for another night)

They eventually decided on a delightful _Spanish Carmine_, which appeared red through one angle and a fuchsia pink through another. That was compromise enough. It went without saying that Nick would be spray painting the cot in a dazzling sheen of silver upon his next visit. And he already had a sea of decals fit for a rockstar bedroom.

Only the best for his niece, of course.


	29. And The Sun Drips Down Bedding Heavy Behind

The word was out and John couldn’t decide how he felt about it. He thought he was crushed, knowing full well that he shouldn’t even be on stage like this. He wasn’t even convinced that he could hold his bass properly whilst standing. _The Power Station _tour was imminent, beginning when Andy was back in the US. The first show was on June 30th in Connecticut. The supergroup had managed to swing a two month tour through the summer, John really hoped for the best.

They all deserved it: Andy, Tony and Michael who would be performing instead of Robert. It still baffled John and sure, he felt a little betrayed but he guessed that he was beginning to understand.

Like Robert, he had other priorities. It may not be the same as working on a solo album as such but John knew his head was to be elsewhere. He would be flying back out with Andy though, hoping his mother would be there in tow. John knew he could never be able to repay them, for what they had given him. The memories, all the laughter. Especially for not turning him away once his secret was out, helping him keep himself hidden from the world.

Once John was back in the States he wasn’t sure where he would be that day. _The_ day.

July 10th, as it stood.

He was standing by the wall, back flush with it, eyeing his precious white four strings on the other side of his bedroom. John hadn’t really dared to try and play standing up, he was frightened over how awful he would look: how much pain it would cause on his lower back. He was terrified about the added weight bringing more stress down to his child, she didn’t deserve that.

John figured it was now or never. Inhaling a deep, shaky breath he trotted over; slow and steady. Reaching a hand out he found himself to be shivering, his fingers jolting out as they inched closer to his prized bass. He was breaking a sweat and he hadn’t even secured his grip around it yet, hadn’t even tried to lift it.

He chickened out, resulting to laying himself out atop of his kingsize with his bass to the left. Crawling upwards so he was resting against the pillows, he inched a finger over to a string. Then another and another until he was content with his thrilling _Get It On_ solo as it pounded through his bedroom. He bought the bass towards him, slinging it over himself in position. Trying to find a comfortable spot that was both practical and could still flaunt his bump. That would be anything but simple.

Eyeing himself in the mirrors on the ceiling, placed there for other and more exclusive reasons, John again lay back with his bass in hand.

“Well you’re dirty and sweet, clad in black, don’t look back” he strummed, voice confident. “And I love you.”

John couldn’t hide just smile as it crept across his face.

“You’re dirty and sweet, oh yeah!”

He adjusted the position of his bass, trying to dodge his daughter in the process.

“Well I’m not slim, I’m not weak” he sang, chuckling through his little improv, “you’ve got the teeth of a hydra upon you!”

John clambered to standing, eventually, slinging his bass around his back. He strutted out into the hallway, fingers tapping on his thigh and tugging at the chains.

“Always _snakes_, huh Rio?”

He stood face to face with his reflection, his giant mirror was pieced together by lots of smaller ones: all arranged in an abstract pattern that John so loved. Taking a step closer he slowly raised a hand up, palm open, and placed it on the cool glass. He found his eyes slipping shut and his lips parted, a shaky gasp escaped.

John pulled away, standing back to he could see everything. He inched his bass carefully back around to his front and looked back up. Biting into his bottom lip he adjusted the strap, tinkered with its position and held back his screams. He refrained from throwing it down the stairs.

***  
  


Turns out, having different doctors across London, Birmingham and New York had made it incredibly hard for John to keep up. To no fault of his own exactly, it was where the work was. Where the _distractions_ were. He just had to chase those rainbows and he supposed they were keeping him alive, somewhat.

He had another appointment in Birmingham this time. He held his breath, cheeks colouring as the doctor walked through that day. _The_ day. John couldn’t call it what it was, just yet. Knowing full well that it would be on his daughter’s time, John clung to the date and had that mental countdown well and truly blaring through his mind.

John was already pretty sure on how he wanted the delivery to go but, of course, who knew how and when it would all happen.

_July 10th, July 10th_ his mind repeated, sometimes shouting and sometimes whispering. _July 10th, July 10th_ and it should be over. This first bout of hell would be over.

His mother was by his side, clutching his sweaty palm as together they were walked through it all. John was incredibly thankful as he tugged and his nails accidentally pierced her skin that she didn’t let go.

He was breathless upon seeing his daughter on screen again, he couldn’t fathom how her heart was still beating. The sound was beautiful, rhythmic, pulsing throughout the room. John only wished that he could tape it, revive it, lay it down on a track. Share the life that he was given, as she danced to her own beat: writing her own music.

Writing John his own notorious album.

  
***  
  


“Oh my.. wow” John breathed, pawing through the album.

He and his mother were sat on the carpet, his toes curling into the plush. His eyes were wide and his breaths were growing ragged, he was being stunned page after page.

“He truly was very handsome, your father.”

John chuckled, his bellow mingling with his mother’s light and cheery giggle.

“Most definitely. He was.. uh.. nineteen, right?”

Jean nodded, pointing to the treasured photograph. The sepia, creased and torn edges did nothing to dampen the pride that seeing these photographs bought John. His father Jack had fought in the Second World War, he was young and thrust into the thick of it. Egypt, if Nigel’s dying memory served John right.

_Your father had a terrible time in the war, but he’ll never talk about it_, his mother would say. She still did every once in a while but by now John was more than aware about certain parts of the Taylor military taboo, the torture and the secrets that his father had kept secret for so long.

“Stalag 344” John breathed, hunching over another photo of his father in his uniform.

He bit into his bottom lip, determined to stifle the tears. He had wondered for years just what had happened, Nigel used to worry himself sick about it until the day came that he finally understood: he could never understand. His father would never want him to know, to never have to try and comprehend it all.

All John knew was that his father’s base had been seized and he, for three years, was a prisoner in Germany. Living off of rations, trading in the cigars he never smoked for sacred potatoes, surely longing for a safe and secure country to return too. Haunted by the notion that he may never have a home again. 

Sensing the impending floodgates, Jean wrapped her fingers around his and together they turned the page.

“Oh god, no!” John immediately chuckled. “Bloody hell!”

There he was, aged four with blinding blonde hair, tiny shorts and a jumper. He wore white socks, rolled down as they were clearly way too long, plus sandals with a brass buckle. He was looking away from the camera, something clearly drawing his attention from the left.

“A young prince of the neighbourhood” John chuckled, catching a glimmer in his mother’s eye from behind the cat eye frames.

“You still are” Jean stated, silencing his retaliation. “My prince of much further than just this neighbourhood, dear.”

John’s smile was true, genuine, almost reaching his own shielded eyes. It continued to grow as together they flipped page after page, taking in each precious memory. John asked countless questions, trying to decipher every aspect of the photographs Nigel had been sneaking glances at for years: whenever he reopened the savoured album he would notice something new and just had to find out more. He had always been intuitive in that sense, a little detective from day one, wanting to bring out the best in everything and everyone he saw.

John wondered when that fondness, that imagination, had left him.

“Fuck, no. Change it, mum, _change_ it!” He was wrestling for the photos as she began reading the accompanying text.

His school days. Shit.

Fighting a losing battle, John eventually relented: his fits of laughter lighting up the room. They flipped through his teenage years, all the spots and ever growing hair and the damned _NHS_ prescription glasses that had bought poor Nigel such pain since primary school, continued to plaster his now not so baby- like face.

Then came the band ones. All his bands and boy, had they had plenty of singers. A good twenty or so and here they were on number.. twelve, thirteen perhaps?

His smile was small, fond, upon seeing his seventeen year old self again.

“I still can’t believe I _made_ that bloody shirt!” John pointed to his younger self, hands shyly wrapped around his guitar decked out in a leather jacket with turned back sleeves. _Very Nigel._ “Mum, the print is shocking.”

“You were all so.. so hopeful. All of you, passionate and determined for Shock Treatment to go somewhere, weren’t you Nigel?”

Cracking another small smile, he furrowed his brows at the mention of his former band’s name.

“Personally I always preferred _Duran Duran._” Jean focused her gaze on her son again, bringing an arm to rest on his shoulder. “It tends to stick in your head, it’s more mystical.” 

Then, if on cue, “Barbarella, find Durand Durand. Find Durand Durand.”

Jean smiled again, nice and bright. She shook her head slowly and cocked it, John hadn’t a clue how many times she must have heard those sacred lines drop from his lips.

“If only I had known how to _spell_ it.” He laughed, flipping to the next page.

“Maybe but, I think, that only adds to the uniqueness of it. Your sound.”

What he saw next truly floored him.

There he was, all of them, cramped up on a poorly lit stage: on a poorly savoured photograph. The edges were slightly torn, the colour off and yet, there they were. All shining.

John cautiously leant forward, his finger inching under the flap to slide the photograph free. It was weightless, of course, feeling so oddly familiar. There was a prick of something behind his eyes and his tongue darted out, licking his bottom lip. He sat still and marvelled at the sight of the final line up, now equipped with far too many Taylors to count and an animal print trouser loving leading man.

The _Rum Runner _lights were dim yet there was a small spotlight on them upfront. The hair, the clothes, the cigarette smoke, that caused John to scrunch his nose upon the sweet memory, spoke volumes of a wannabe synth pop band trying to find their feet in 1980.

They were New Romantics at heart, no matter how the music scene evolved.

“You thought Rog” he choked, eyes welling up as he pointed to the tiny silhouette, “was a heathen. That he would.. you know, his punk background would _corrupt_ me.”

John felt Jean’s chest shake as she chuckled at his side. She pursed her lips and leant in closer, nude fingertip tracing the beaten corner of the photograph.

“I believe I had once said the same thing about—” she caressed Simon’s overgrown brown fringe and then the tartan scarf that was hung loosely around his neck. “And Nigel, it turns out that..”

“You found _humour_ in it all, the lack of heathens?!”

“No, they truly were the best you could have found. The best that could ever have happened to find you, all of them. I couldn’t be any more proud, my son, of what you Nicholas, Andy, Roger and Simon have achieved. It’s absolutely incredible.”

“Simon.” He repeated, eyes tearing themselves away from the young, ever growing confident face of the singer.

“Yes dear,” she was laughing, “_Simon_.”

John placed the photograph down, finding it hard to part with it. He wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck and hugged her tight, Rio lovingly squished between them.

John startled and broke away. He looked down at himself, grinning.

“She’s kicking. That means.. uh, she likes you.” He muttered, biting into his bottom lip. “She really likes you a lot mum, she _loves_ you.”

Jean flaunted her biggest, most elegant of smiles across her nude lips. Her eyes were sparkling and John’s heart felt light.

  
“She loves you _Mamma_ Taylor.”

“And I _love_ her.”

He took his sweet time with the _Rum Runner _shots, sifting through and removing the odd couple. He wanted them, wanted to frame them in his London flat.

“Why don’t we take a look in the attic? I still have some of your baby blankets and toys up there, you know that I could never truly part with them.” Jean began, half hour or so later.

John nodded, with a smile. He staggered to his feet, laughing as his mother did. It was growing harder and harder to do such a simple task.

“Why do I keep sitting on the damn floor?!” He questioned, now a little winded.

“And _where_ do you think you’re going, son?” She giggled, now stood beside him.

It took John a moment and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Once you’re father is home, he can help us. There is no way, Nigel, you are climbing that ladder with Rio in tow. Not now, not ever!”

Again, their laughter intertwined. He followed his mother into the kitchen and took a seat. They would have some tea whilst they waited for Jack to return from tinkering with his car. His new _Mercedes_, gifted to him by his son of course.

  
“We danced into the fire.”

John eyed the crumpled photograph again. They were so small, so vulnerable and naïve to the world they were about to encounter. To take over by storm. Clinging to the memory of his overgrown mousey brown fringe that he was so poorly hiding behind, John let a single tear roll down his cheek.

“And look, Duran, where it got us.”

It was a happy tear and only a happy tear. 


	30. The Girl Is At Your Side, Are You Gonna Do It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my good gods, now we have thirty. Honestly, I know I keep doing it but I cannot help myself: thank you all, for the love and support I have had along the way. The comments continue to amaze me, fuel me and I’m finding myself really struggling to put my own fic down! (I know, how sad is that?)
> 
> Not long left! Things are getting very close, stupidly close, John better watch himself.

“Should ya even be flying this heavy, Johnny?” A slightly tipsy, northern accent filled his ears.

Andy held out a hand and John, with a chuckle, took it and ground his head into the rest.

“Nope. It’s not like I asked for this one though I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Ah.” Andy downed his little bottle.

“Sorry, man. You know I gotta—”

“—Yeah, it’s fine. Go ahead. I know you’re still petrified of flyin’.”

“I wouldn’t say.. _petrified_.. just pretty freakin’ scared!”

Taking in his rich laugh, John clutched Andy’s string beaten fingers tighter with his own. Upon a stewardess strutting past, heels tapping as she moved, Andy held out a hand and waved her over.

“‘Ave medical on standby” he grinned and she, after a momentary face of confusion turn alarm, settled her gaze on John and nodded. “Gonna need a couple sick bags!”

***  
  


John deposited his heavy, jet-lag ridden body atop of the hotel bedspread and swore he sank.

“Fucking hell!” He was laughing, again having thought too late about—

“I’m not heaving you up again, Johnny, that was tough.”

John felt his presence, eyes widening and jaw dropping open. He cautiously craned his neck up and searched for who he prayed was really there, almost certain his exhausted mind was again playing it’s cruel tricks.

“John?”

He bolted upright, almost. Those strong hands caught him and eased him into a sitting position: legs splayed and hands gripping at the sheets as he centralised his weight.

“Rog!” He was beaming, eyes roaming all over the drummer who now perched before him.

John flung himself forward cautious of Rio getting squished, he had gotten pretty good at that- he thought, and hugged him. The two Taylors breaths synched up, chests moving in time throughout the embrace.

Burying his neck in Roger’s strong shoulder, he inhaled his scent. It was fresh, warm and alluring. It felt like coming home: where the bassist should be, perfectly in time with his drummer.

“Rog, I-” John began as he reluctantly pulled away, he just had to look at him again.

John’s lips parted but no sound came out. His shielded gaze roamed all over Roger mere inches from him atop the bed, up and down and side to side. His gaze landed back on Roger’s handsome face who was confused, eyebrows furrowing.

“What is it, John?” He stated, voice small.

John was so incredibly thankful; already praying to Father Cassidy who had miraculously still welcomed him into his church, for Roger’s return. There was a glow about him, both Taylors, something small but so beautiful and worth John taking his time to behold. Roger was shining, miles away from the beaten down, lost soul in Paris that still awoke John in the middle of the night in a cold; guilt ridden sweat.

He still appeared to be exhausted but this, John knew far too well, was indeed the jet-lag taking its toll. Oh, how he could _kiss_ him upon this revelation! Wait-

“Oh my.. fuck, I, Rog we.. we never,” He began, digging himself the hole, “I never, uh.. _apologised_ for what I did. I, shit, Rog.”

He dropped his gaze, scooting away to dangle his legs off of the edge of the bed.

“Rog, I- I never meant too—” John startled, cutting himself off with a yelp.

His shielded gaze fell to his shoulder, the warm hand that was resting atop of the satin. John let Roger guide him back around, back so they were face to face and only millimetres apart.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to apologise.” Roger’s smile was soft and warm, genuine. “Come on John, you never apologise for anything.”

“Hey!”

“Anything that you’re _supposed_ to be apologising for. That’s unheard off, I know you.” It was a little cheeky and maybe not as Roger as John thought it should’ve been but whatever, he dismissed the thought with the shaking of his fringe out of his face.

He heard Roger chuckle again, the sound absolutely music to his aching ears. A savoured sound he could never forget, no matter how far apart they were.

_Screw it; sometimes all you need is now_.

John launched himself into Roger’s open arms and again he buried his head in his shoulder.

“Hey, hey!” His breath tickled John’s cheek, “at least, John, at least you’re not crying this time.”

He blinked rapidly, they both knew he was pretty much almost there. Slowly pulling away from the drummer’s supportive frame, John raised his gaze so they were level. Both sets of chocolate browns were watery and that thought was beautiful.  
  


***  
  


Gazing heavily into the glass, the void, John fidgeted with his collar. He ran his hands down each button and back up the overlapping fabric, how he longed for the frills. John really hadn’t been so dressed up, he supposed, in a long time. Suit and tie, stylish and slick type of dressed up. It was a proper suit and tie, no daring red nods or _Anthony Price _to bring out his personality through his already adventurous wardrobe choices. He didn’t need to shine today, that wasn’t his job.

For once, John was more than eager to blend in. He was there to be dazzled, to watch others be dazzled and just enjoy himself.

It was incredibly nauseating to think of who he would be enjoying tonight with but, not now, tonight that didn’t matter. He couldn’t let his stray thoughts get the better of him.

Eyeing his reflection, he fingered his bow tie and held it before him.

  
“Not even gon’ fucking try.”

“Still having to dress you, where would you be without me, Nigel?”

John straightened his spine, employing his full height. He watched the smirk forming on the figure behind him: the heavily kohl lined eyes and raven hair sprayed and re-sprayed to the finest degree, not quite the ceiling. Wordlessly, John handed Nick the bow tie and bent his knees. He had to grab the sink to support himself, barely able to hide his grin.

Nick’s touch was light, expertly fastening it in place. His deft hands fingered John’s collar, smoothing it down and together they ensured that he could still breathe. Nick let his hand rest on John’s shoulder as he joined his baby brothers gaze on their silhouettes: all the black, wrapped in a delectably silken bow.

Without breaking the moment, Nick helped John ease himself into his suit jacket. He immersed himself in the feeling of the smooth inner satin, it felt like heaven when accompanied by the fabric of his blouse.

“Now, give us a turn.”

John pouted.

“Come on Nigel, a lovely _twirl_.”

John rolled his eyes.

  
“A twirl of your body, not eyes, you git!”

Nick stepped back and let John have his spotlight. He ran his piercing hazel eyes all over him as John pivoted, catching sight of his stomach in the mirror.

“Holy fuck!” He stumbled forward, eyes wide, as an embarrassing blush began to settle atop his cheeks, “you can’t lemme go out there, Nick, not looking like this! It’s... Christ, what... it’s fuckin' _awful_!” He exclaimed, suddenly feeling far too hot under the collar.

“Hush Nigel. You’re _eight_ months pregnant, you just have to flaunt all that you’ve got.” Nick nodded to his bump, causing John to follow. “You look stunning, you’re carrying that suit better than ever.”

Nick’s words were soothing although John still felt the heat.

“I’m just.. shit, _we_, we look like a bloody whale!”

With a soft chuckle, Nick was at his back.

“You’ve grown, miraculously, the way you were supposed to. It’s all natural.”

“But—”

“—Nigel, stop it. You, the both of you, are more than ready to go out there with your head held high. You’re still a handsome bastard,” Nick paused at the small chuckle he had provoked from John, “who’s just far too shy to own it. Own it, flaunt what you’ve got. Make my niece a star worth her shine.”

John cursed every hormone known to man, sweeping the tears as they pricked at his eyes.

“I can’t bloody wait to start, you know, claiming some form of.. control over these damn emotions.” He stammered out, eventually.

Nick closed in behind him, coaxing John’s gaze back up to focus on the dapper duo. Their reflections, the beaming smile on Nick’s face was more than enough to have John right there with him.

“I’m going to go get Julie, I’ll see you there.” John leant into the embrace before Nick slipped out of the en-suite, back out into the room.

He had a moment, fanning himself and trying to cool off.

“Damn San Francisco heat.”

“Yeah, sure. Blame the bloody _weather_, that’s just like ya!”

John stumbled forward, cursing and poorly hiding it.

_And that makes Duran number three, Christ._

“What is it with y’all sneakin’ up on me?! Goddamnit Ands!”

“Trying to induce labor?” He sniggered, slipping his sunglasses into his pocket.

_Induce.. what now?_

“Shit… no! You better not scare me like that, you ass. Ands, I could.. I, oh my god!”

_That shit can actually happen. From now. Can’t it?_

With a roll of his light eyes, Andy lurched forward and began steering John away from the mirror. Together they bid the hotel room farewell and headed straight for the lift.

Upon the door closing and some weird tinkly music flowing through the small speakers- _had to be freaking Spandau, didn’t it? Today of all days- _John turned to his partner in what was for once not all leather clad crime.

It was as though Andy had read his thoughts.

His right hand shot into his suit jacket, real aware of where it was heading. John retrieved a small sacred bag, rolling it about his fingers. With his expert touch, it’s white contents were lovingly poured and huffed. John went in for round two only to find that Andy had beaten him too it, stopping him.

“Oh no ya don’t. Not today, Tigger.”

  
**June 13th 1985.** A pretty fucking big day in the Duran calendar.

“You’re gon’ wanna remember this night, man.”

Scooping up the remaining powdered life force, Andy sealed the bag and buried it within his own pocket. John knew what he was doing, the guitarist wouldn’t be using it himself.

The lift dinged itself open, unveiling the grand foyer. It’s pastel walls were soothing, covered in these weird golden swirls that John couldn’t tell was art or not. The patterns looked pretentious as hell so John figured that yes, an artist was buried in there somewhere.

Andy nudged him out of it. They were being blinded by the flashes, the screams, the cops barely holding them all back. He was bid farewell as Andy headed to his designated car, with Tracey already inside. John stood solitary, momentarily paralysed as pictures were snapped and the film rolled, before a chauffeur managed to snap him back into reality. John followed, steps oddly cautious, before he clambered into the back seat.

The door slammed behind him and he was immersed in what was almost pure darkness. His eyes slipped shut and he sunk deep into the rich leather, it felt like heaven. Where he belonged.

He treasured his inner moments of peace, able to dull the shrill screams of the fans from outside the tinted windows. Lolling his head back, John longed to have somebody beside him. Someone to share this surely unforgettable evening with, to share his success with.

His eyes darted open and a chuckle dropped free.

“You really _are_ reading my damn thoughts, aren’tcha Baby Taylor?!”

He settled his huge hands atop his stomach, on the dress shirt that enveloped the bulges and curves. 

“Well Rio, you’re right. I’m not alone.”

It was at that moment that he hissed, the light barging in through the other end of the limo, as two more people slid in.

** _Meeting you, with A View To A Kill. _ **

** **

John was stunned into silence, gaze wide and he was shaking, he couldn’t break away. He sat dumbfounded, internally screaming, as he took in his sights: all silk and the finest of linen, all wrapped up in a diamond encrusted bow.

** _Face to face in secret places._ **

** **

The figure paused, eyes blowing wide. Carefully, they inched themselves back down, smoothing out their clothes as they did so. They took a seat beside him; torn between staring him down and staring back into the tinted windows like they held all the answers.

** _Feel the chill._ **

John swung his head back forward, hair dropping into his eyes. He scooted over as far as he could as he propped a hand up at the window, head falling into it. Screwing his eyes shut, he desperately tried to bite back. Everything. The tears, the screams, the need to just throw himself into—

** _When all we see_ **

“John.”

** _Is the View To A Kill._ **

** **

“John? Are you.. are you okay? Can you hear me?”

** _The View To A Kill._ **


	31. A Chance To Find A Phoenix For The Flame

**June 13th 1985.** A day that was sure to change Duran history, whether they liked it or not.

John was quickly left alone, the voice had stopped trying to reach him and it had thankfully dulled itself into nothing. He was left to lose himself in his thoughts, his inner screams and cries. He couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything, other than a numbness that coated his skin and a ringing in his ears. Grinding his head deeper into his now sweat slick palm, he forced himself to keep quiet. Hastily brushing away a tear, he was sure to have gone unnoticed: the action small enough to pass off as nothing.

_Keep it civil, eyes and teeth_. That was all he wanted to do, today. Now, right now.

He had the remainder of the journey to try and bleed every emotion, rip off every blood soaked plaster like each one didn’t sting him straight to the core, dripping liquid magma down each limb. His breaths had deepened, his eyes were watery and to make matters worse: they weren’t even alone.

_Eyes and teeth. Eyes and teeth._

The blaring lights were coming too fast, the screams were deafening, something overpowering enough to finally draw him from his nightmare.

  
_Eyes and teeth. Eyes and fucking teeth._

A shaky hand on the door and he was cornered, spine jolting upright as he felt a sudden heat on his back. He caught sight as a hand wrapped itself around his, running over each finger and ignorant to the sweat. Reluctantly, John cocked his head and took in that gaze. He was met by a front page worthy smile, although there was a sadness in it. One that was poorly hidden, he noted.

“…the band of the evening, it’s.. it’s John Taylor of _Duran Duran _with.. with, who is that?”

He had to be helped out, squinting as the camera flashes were painful, making his skin flush deep with it. He turned back in a panic, only to be pivoted around again; a hand on his back.

“… fellow band mate… and his…”

“Are you ready, John?”

John shook himself free, only to immediately be gripped onto again.

“…tour, _Power Station_ on tour?!”

John bit into his bottom lip. Tipped his head back. Engulfed a deep, shaky breath. Refocused.

  
“You can’t bloody play like that.. that bass.”

_Not tonight, the press know enough as it is. You can do this, Ni-John. We. We can do this. John._

“…the car behind… see’s fellow band mates Roger Taylor and his beautiful bride… guitarist Andy and…”

“John, John… give us a turn! John!”

He stood stock still, anxieties bleeding away.

“Let us see that beauty of yours!”

“Is the father here? He’s here?!”

He let them take the lead, angling his body towards the camera’s; the fans having flocked to see them all.

“Are _Duran Duran_ obsolete? Having to... rely on...”

To catch a glimpse of him and all their dreams would come true.

“A film soundtrack? How is that changing Duran from within?”

“…is he here? The.. John, the father of your…”

“Ready for parenthood? … the rock style, drug ridden life… _goodbye?_”

He was talking, John couldn’t hear anything. He kept talking, laughing and joking as they began the supposedly leisurely stroll, hating every adoring fan and crazed reporter in that moment.

  
“Does she have a name?!”

They were captured in a trance, together they were lured into _MTV’s_ torturous flame.

“A song... after a song!”

“Simon, John! Just quickly, very quickly, you will be performing, yes?”

John felt a hand on him, as he was whisked around.

“Yes, we will in.. its all pretty last minute. New York, I believe.”

“Philadelphia.” John muttered.

“Oh, yeah. It’s all very rushed, we will be there. New York, isn’t it?”

“Philadelphia.”

He slipped away, eyes scanning the crowded carpet: Nick was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you going solo? John, John!”

He had to keep moving, keep smiling and nodding, shuffling his way through.

“… solo artist? You and that bastard?”

“Wanker!”

John felt nausea, choked, the heat was stifling and his skin was burning. He was being blinded, Rio was well and truly on show. He felt as though he could.. almost, _no, no no, not here.. don’t you even—_

John darted inside.

_Motherfucker!_

He ducked every person, not at all kindly. In a true panic, he scooted past everyone: every suit and tie, every chiffon and satin frock turning to him and trying to holler him back.

Finding the bathroom he shot into a stall, slumping over it. The tears were wild, ruthless, he heaved as Rio kicked and swam about. His head was swirling, thrashing, pulse running too hot as he toppled forward: voiding his stomach and praying desperately for his world to stop spinning.

John yelled, wiped at his mouth and yelled more. He fell to his knees, shoulders quaking. With a croak, he flushed the toilet and stumbled out of the door. Whipping his head up, he was again blinded by the white light. They framed his rumpled figure, mussed mullet and sweaty face. The blush on his cheeks was stifling, the heat was too much and he found himself lurching forward.

John doused his face with cool water and bolted upright. He wasn’t alone.

_Holy fucking God._

A hoard of guards had strut in, wrapping themselves around the man. John could barely make out the whispers, the insignia, catching a glimpse from over his shoulder.

_That’s.. That’s Prince—_

“Charles!” All four guards turned to him, shielded eyes burning a hole straight through his own red-rimmed own.

Fumbling back around, he choked out, “I’ll just.. you know, uh.. shit, yeah.” He nodded to the door and was out in a flash.

“Oof! Oh, oh my!”

_Have I died?_

John had a face full of silvery satin.

_I did it._

He slowly rose to standing.

_I overdosed and am heading to hell on a shovel._

He was enrapt by the beaming smile, the glamour and the charm.

_But why would she be in hell? Unless she is really... Fuuuuck!_

John stuttered, sputtered, the whole lot. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to steady himself. His grin was huge, stupidly huge, now unable to leave his face.

She was heavenly; the glow about her was absolutely regal. A well deserved, pristine title.

“Your _highness_, I, I’m truly sorry I, I didn’t mean—”

“—It’s quite alright. I’m oh so happy to have stumbled into you, John.”

_She knows my name, she actually knows my freakin— wait._

“It’s my honour.”

_We are her favourite band. Get a grip, Taylor. You’ve bloody met her before._

John was well and truly caught in her trance. Her smile was warm, her dress was absolutely stunning and she, John almost fainted, held out a deft hand.

He paused, eyes wide.

_If somebody shoots me now._

“Please, it’s alright.”

There he was, panting and flush, shaking hands with a royal. The Princess Of Wales, a self declared Duranie.

“Your Highness, do I call you that?”

_Real smooth, you asshole._

Diana’s chuckle filled his ears, her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks tinted in a lovely blush.

Now accompanied by her husband and their security again, what happened next truly shocked him into next week.

_I’m surely frothing at the mouth._

Diana had insisted on two more minutes so there they were, talking and laughing. The Princess Of Wales, a national treasure, and The Prince Of Hollywood.

  
A national treasure too, of sorts.

John’s smile was plastered to his face and his tone was light. He was truly on cloud nine. She was absolutely stunning, a true caring soul. Her voice was rhythmical and comforting, asking about him. Not the band, just him. He and Rio. Chancing getting shot again, John leant forward and dared to whisper the sacred words in her ear: voice tickling the diamonds she wore so effortlessly.

Pulling away they were both smiling, chuckling, enamoured with the other.

“Do I, we, my daughter and I, have your _permission_ ma’am?”

Diana regarded him, a wink was his answer.

The Prince and Princess were then swept away, thrown back into the crowd. John backed himself into the wall, trying to recall what had just happened. He was at a complete loss, stunned and he couldn’t have felt a better high.

Finally able to tear his shivering self from the support of the theatre wall, John strut right back into the thick of it- face tear free and only a small smear of eyeliner was ruined.


	32. A Chance To Die, But Can We?

The royal meet and greet was unbelievable. There they stood: Roger, Andy, Nick, John and Simon. Simon.

_Yeah, Simon._

They each shook the hands of the Prince and Princess, Diana seeming to linger in front of John. He couldn’t believe it, lost in her voice and dashing smile. Her stature was perfectly poised, always elegant and pristine: even if she was being bought down by the barely in time band before her.

  
_Eyes and teeth, remember Charlie?_

She laughed and John joked, internally screaming. Simon and Nick even joined in, he was squished in between them both. It felt odd, maybe even good? Good. It felt strangely familiar, wedged in between the two _Arcadias_ and brushing shoulders with the Royals.

John was sure to faint at any moment.

Once the precious Princess had been ripped from his sights John looked down at his right hand. He could still feel a tingle from where she had touched it, gripped him more than once. He felt a spark from where she had caressed his arm earlier, her deft fingertips were so soothing and reassuring. John’s head felt light.

  
The celebrities keep coming. They came in swarms all flocking through the theatre. John was winded after catching a whiff of Grace Jones’ daring musky perfume, he almost really did faint upon managing to shake hands with Christopher Walken. And when the legendary Bond in the flesh addressed him, Andy well and truly slapped the back of his head, upon John’s request, and he was finally content that it was not a dream. That really was Roger Moore.

  
_The name’s Taylor, John Taylor._

  
***  
  


They were to find their seats any minute. Another dash of white breathing powder now running hot through his veins (John had his ways) he froze. There they were, all of them: Roger and his Italian beauty Giovanna; Andy and perfectly crazy match Tracey; Nick and the darling Julie Anne and… erm…

He locked eyes with those beady blues, quickly dropping his gaze.

John felt a tender touch on his shoulder, one that matched the touch in the limousine: insistent. Miraculously, he found his voice and raised his gaze.

Ignoring the tremble in his fingers, the cracks in his tone, he managed to face him.

“Mr Taylor, I.. it’s truly a pleasure.”

John didn’t hear a word that was said. His attention was snatched by someone to his left. His eyes traced the line of where his arm had been touched, the heat it had bought.

Feeling a sudden urge to just man up and speak, John swallowed his pride.

“I, I just wanted too you know, _apologise_.. for how I,” John gulped, ever so scrutinised, “We, we acted on the way over.”

“John please, I also—”

“—Don’t, I don’t need to hear it. You did nothing wrong, Simon.”

Simon, it dropped off of his lips like a curse.

His eyes landed on Simon’s own, his small smile growing more fond as John found himself smiling in return.

_Just a small smile._

“Are you alright?”

It was a stupid question but John let it slide, “Uh yeah, I guess. It’s a big night and all.”

“Yeah.”

John bit into his bottom lip, well aware of another set of eyes on his baby body.

_For the press. I’m fine._

They made small talk for a couple more minutes and then it dawned on him, lips quirking up to mask his pain.

  
_Totally fine._

“I’m sorry dear, I didn’t catch your name on the way over. I let you feel me up and missed your humble introduction.” John held out a hand, ready to shake the one that had been touching him all night.

  
Trying to reassure and remind him that he wasn’t alone. John could just see it in her eyes. Her maroon lips readily parted and she immersed herself in John’s space. She indeed appeared very self assured and glad to have finally have been recognised by him.

“Yasmin, Yasmin Parvaneh.”

They shook hands.

“It truly is a pleasure, can I call you John?”

Her grip was warm, firm. Just like in the limousine. John nodded, fringe falling into his eyes and he winced at the sudden strong whiff of stiff hairspray. 

As they broke away, John’s eyes found the singers again.

“You’re a very lucky woman, Simon will.. he, he will take.. care of you, treat you to only the best.” His eyes found Yasmin’s kohl-lined ones, they were soft. “He will.. Simon, he will _love_ and respect you, always, my dear Yasmin.”

“John.”

”Are you sure,” Yasmin let John cuff her arm. “John, you’re _okay_ with me and Charlie? I would hate to hurt you.”

“I wish you both the best, honest.” He didn’t give it a second thought. 

“John,” Simon stated, voice small as reached forward, not quite daring to lay a hand on him.

Eyes watery, sirens blaring in his mind saw John dodge his movements and somehow, his feet bought him closer to the enchanting aura of Miss Par-par-ve-neya? Nah?

“I mean it, I wish you both the best. He’s truly an angel.” His voice was taut, but he made it through.

John began to slip away, unable to hear anything Simon said: well and truly sinking deep into the murky blue.

“Hey, we were each given two tickets and I already have _my_ plus one.” John looked down at himself, hands coming to rest atop his stomach.

“John, can I—”

“—I’ll see you inside.” It was the last thing he remembered saying.

John whisked around on his heel, his feet carrying him as far away from the couple as he could.

_She was surely hired for this, right?_

Chancing a glance back over, he locked eyes with Simon again.

  
_He found her in a magazine, we were all so damn vain._

  
The gaze felt like an eternity, volumes were being spoken but they were far too fast for him to catch up.

_He called her up, charmed her with stupid jokes that melt me over the phone._

They were kissing, Simon’s soft hands running all over her satin dress. The front of which was indeed shadowy lined.

  
_He serenaded her, Arcadia is riddled with ballads._

The scene was beautifully nauseating before John finally ripped himself from it, turning back to those all around him. The image of Simon and Yasmin would be ingrained into his memory, a stain on his heart.

_He found his Lady Ice, huh?_

Internally he was screaming, kicking and lashing out in any which way he could. Whereas outside he was quiet, basking in the blaring neon of the opening credits as they rolled: all the lush figures, guns and martini glasses.

Hearing his own bassline pounding through the theatre speakers he shed a tear. It wasn’t for his playing, nor for Duran.

Duran, who weren’t even sat by him. Where were they, where had they gone?

John was running, having upped in the neon haze as soon as it was over. He fled the theatre and was aimlessly traipsing through the streets of San Fransisco.

John vowed to never watch it. He didn’t need too. It wasn’t worth the heartache. He had made it through a mere five minutes, his part, well and truly drenched in tears.

Anything but a lovers rosey stain.


	33. How Quiet They Gather, When The Storm Is About To Blow

The countdown was well and truly on. Following the uneventful night at the premier John had refrained, battled with himself not to let it get the best of him. Honestly, he was surprised at himself for how he had handled the situation. It was all for the press and on some disturbing level he knew that, although he could feel his own heart shredding at its already sown and poorly re-sown seams: Simon deserved it. He deserved someone that made him happy, a woman who was sure to keep herself at his side and be there for him when he needed her, give him his space if he wanted it that way.

Someone who could go the whole damn night. He sniggered, the poor girl hadn’t a clue what she was waltzing into in terms of _that_ department but, his grin faltered, did he still know? Did he even remember? Was it all just a coke heavy dream?

Whatever it was, he wasn’t waiting anymore. They had been at odds for far too long and he would be asking too much, the reasons as to the why, how he had kept himself buried under it all, hadn’t changed. Since finding out the news and balling in the rock doctor’s office all those months ago: John pretty much still felt the same. He was at odds with the world. He, just he, and that was the way God intended.

_Where is my God?_

Bottles had been smashed, sure, but he hadn’t drank them. A couple glasses here, empty, the odd kitchen appliance there had been hurled to the floor but once that raging fire had simmered into a barely there spark as he found himself on his knees to clean his mess.

John saw that as some newfound maturity he never thought he could master. Within those four days he hadn’t drank more than half a bottle of whiskey and Rio had simply egged him on. And by that, well, it was simply all thrown back up much faster than it had gone down.

Could he even count it as a drink?

Whatever, that was then. And now, as John slumped back into his bed, for what was written in the stars to be the most lonesome day in the Duran calendar.

His birthday had quickly lost all meaning throughout his teenage years. It was just another day to mourn what he had lost and would waste pondering over what was yet to come: a thought that honestly scared the shit out of Nigel and left John quaking in his cowboy boots. So he didn’t dwell upon it, it was to be a private affair.

He was the only Taylor residing in the New York penthouse, an unfortunate turn of events. Thoroughly convinced that the rest of the band were back to their respective career routes, or home, John would be celebrating alone. He couldn’t fly anymore, it was far too distressing and anxiety inducing and that was an addiction- flying- that he could overcome. Maybe Andy was still here, with _The Power Station_, lurking about. John didn’t know but he didn’t think to ask when he had had the chance too.

***  
  


It was a low-key affair. Upon yanking himself out of bed much earlier than he would have wanted, at least he was able to spend his morning talking to someone who loved him. All those thousands of miles away.

It went without saying that John, and Rio, had never missed his mother so much. He didn’t care who knew that, there really was something softer buried under his usually so dismissive and flimsy exterior. 

They laughed and joked, John chuckling throughout his own stories. They loved to reminisce, although it bought about a dull pain he chose to ignore it, and together they focused on his childhood and birthdays that had come and gone. Surprisingly, John found it to be very light and easy conversation: one worth his time. _Sober_. Or there abouts.

There was no cake as _what loser buys himself a birthday cake? _And nor were there any presents. Rio was his present, his baby girl was all that he could’ve wanted this year. He was content with that, diving back under the covers with a cup of tea and endless _Bourbons_, he was putting on baby weight just by treating himself to a simple whiff of them. He swapped his mug so it seemed a little less out of the ordinary but hey, he was still here. He had made it to twenty-five in multiple tarnished pieces and yet, he was still going.

Funnily enough, although it pained him to utter it any louder than a whisper, perhaps there was something to stick around for now.

Baby Taylor, his saviour. His reason to want to be here.

And that, well and truly, was the greatest gift he could have gotten this year. Along with life itself, not just his own. Or so John thought.

  
***  
  


“Huh?... alright, mmkay.. I’m..” John rubbed at his eyes, with a groggy moan. “I’m comin’!”

Stumbling to his feet and thanking whichever divinity for him having fallen asleep mostly still propped up with his back flush against the headboard, he plodded to the front door. A flick of his wrist told him it was approaching 17:30, he had only drifted off a couple hours back. It was still his birthday. John submerged that thought deep beneath… whatever.

_Left them on the bloody— Crap_.

His glasses were on the dressing table and now he was fumbling throughout the giant living room, near blind, colliding with the sofa in the process. John shot an arm forward for the familiar touch of the idols and paintings that hung on the walls as he miraculously found his way to the door. Rio had started to kick and tumble about. John was sure that he had never experienced such grand movements from her before. It was strange.

Not even bothering to check through the eyepiece, _and whatcha gonna see? _sniggering at the mere thought of doing so _blind_, John yanked it open and promptly moved aside.

How he didn’t throw up right then and there was well and truly beyond him. Rio’s drumbeat had risen in tempo, a _stretto_ which, to the poor musician in John, meant a ceremonious end of a bar, a significance. Or something else of vital importance along those lines.

Turns out his baby girl was a genius, not that John had really given it much thought. She knew exactly what was happening and John was certain this child had aligned herself with the stars to make it happen. The pesky thing, an absolute _genius_.


	34. There’s A Dream That Strings The Road, With Broken Glass For Us To Hold

He couldn’t turn away, unsure he even wanted too. John’s feet were somehow rooted to the ground, his mouth was hanging open. Blind or not, he knew that silhouette anywhere. He could feel it before he could see it, the aura was strong and mystical: catching him in a trance. Unable to speak, cursing every bone within him having turned to mush at the flash of a small smile, John found himself stepping to one side and laying a hand out. To invite him in, let him invade the precious Taylor sanctuary.

It was just a matter of time to see who caved first. John stumbled back to his bedroom, grabbing his glasses and it hit him. He could finally see, the fog had parted and as John crept back into the living room, he could feel his heart jacking up its pulse in his chest and his confused little head began to pound with it. Every inch of him was shaking, clenching and unclenching, as though he was trapped in a vice. Unsure if he wanted it any other way.

Steps small and laboured, he rounded his way to the sofas and opted for a chair to the right. Letting it take his weight he sighed, shaking like a leaf. His eyes were glassy and dimmed red, his mouth was dry and his head span.

It was only a matter of time to see who would cave in first.

Out of nowhere, the silence was broken. For once John was hooked, completely in the moment, knowing exactly what he was hearing as the words rolled off of those plush lips.

“Happy Birthday. Twenty Five, bloody hell. I’m so _proud_ of you.”

John nodded once, solemn.

“Thank you for,” there was a pause and John felt the bile rise in this throat, “for, not turning me away. _This_ time.”

He didn’t know why he hadn’t.

“It’s,” he coughed, “_my_ birthday. I guess I.. you know, can share it.”

“You already are.” John followed the finger, tipping his head down as he surveyed himself. “Thank you for that.”

His stripy satin blue and white shirt framed him beautifully, although the pattern embodies that of tacky blinds, the bump was unavoidable. Jamming his hands into the barely there pockets, John rose his gaze. _When had he shifted? _

“May I?”

Panic settled in, John didn’t know where to look until he was faced with—

“Oh, um, yeah. You really… didn’t have too, thank you, though.”

John was handed a well wrapped present, it sat in his lap. His trembling fingers inched under the wrapping, carefully tearing it away. His feet were surrounded by a little pile of holographic red and a silver bow, as John eyed the box.

He removed the plastic bag and unfolded them.

“I want to be there, when I _see_ you wearing them.”

_Wearing them?_

“Be there?”

_Wearing what?_

John opened them up, lap now covered in red and black. The leathers were beautiful with a delectable smell that would turn John on no matter what. He inched a nimble finger down the studs. Accompanied with a daring boxy red jacket, it was a deeper and more mature shade of red than anything John had so far bought himself. John’s gaze was immediately pulled to the tags, knowing purely by the sight of the clothing: it would be months until he could fit into them.

_Wait, months? A year? _

“I would’ve gotten you both a matching pair but I’m certain Nick beat me too it.”

“Um, no? Not yet?”

Albeit confused, John was thankful. There was something new in his closet to look forward too now, once his weight had somehow gotten back to where he was before. A mere 140kg, he still laughed as to where the magazines had gotten that figure from, as opposed to whatever the hell he had gained since. He didn’t like to think about it.

“I, they’re.. uh, _wonderful_, thank you.” John murmured, worrying the tags in his string beaten fingers.

“They’ll go great together, don’tcha think John?”

He nodded, already able to see it in his mind.

_A photoshoot, something a little mean and dreary_. John would be the one splash of colour to liven up each shot. Perhaps even photographed in noir, then the ruby could be edited: to shine through; a single flash of colour. _Very classic._

Folding them back up, John placed his presents atop the gold encrusted coffee table before him.

“Something to look forward too, once this whale becomes a dolphin?” He muttered, shielded eyes falling onto Rio.

“Yeah, eventually. I want to _see_ you in them.”

John still was unclear of the meaning, with a huff he let it slide.

Only breaths were audible now, slowly getting deeper. His own had quickened but they weren’t choking him yet. It felt as though they were clearing his throat, his head, and John rose to his feet. He wasn’t alone. There they both stood metres apart, flames threatening to burn them both. Both hearts, both heads tuning into _the eyes of a stranger_; a long loss.

It was only a matter of time before one would break.

“C-ha” he panted, a hot streak burning his cheek, “_Charlie_.”

It dropped off of his lips, basked in salty tears, barely audible. John’s eyes widened, the beat hit a crescendo and the heat of his cheeks were being swiped away. By a smooth finger.

“Johnny, it’s me. I’m here and I- Christ!” Simon broke away, blue eyes dropping down to John.

He was smiling, knowing full on what had just happened. Simon had leant in close enough, bumped into the bump and felt it. Finding John’s wavering gaze again, both sets of weary eyes speaking volumes, John found himself nodding as he took a cautious step closer. Slightly crouching, the singer’s voice was wretched and deep.

Submerged in his own tears, Simon managed to whisper “hi.. _baby_, you don’t know me but I.. I,”

“He’s your father, Rio.”

Surprised at his own words, the way in which he carried them, John startled. Simon’s head had quirked up like a double take, eyes stupidly wide and mouth agape.

  
“She knows you.. she fucking _knows_ you! She’s never kicked like this,” he sobbed. “Only for you, for _you_ Charlie!”

After a beat, “_Rio_, my beautiful baby girl, I.. God. I.. I cannot apologise enough for having _left_ you all this time.”

Simon croaked, clearing his throat. John couldn’t turn it off, his own waterworks running hotter as he watched Simon, how Simon didn’t dare to lay a hand on him.

“I promise I, John look at me,” John did as he was told, “baby please, wait, we need a new nickname. Later. I’m not going anywhere. Just John,” Simon’s breath was shaky, face tinged with red, “please.. _let me in. _Please, John, _there's heat beneath your winter_ _let me in._” He cried over and over, voice cracking and tearing through John.

John refrained, standing stock still, breaths shaky and he was choking on air. Simon’s air, the intoxicating warmth he bought to John's winter: his rhythm and rhyme; so at ease yet so much danger. _To look through the eyes of a stranger,_ a long loss love. A lost cause.

Amongst the flow, a tender voice found the conviction, the need.

“I’m, Charlie, I-“ John wiped at his eyes to no avail, his frames near steaming over, “I can’t believe I keep hurting you—”

Simon shushed him. John kissed his finger.

“Don’t talk, you don’t need to apologise for anything. I’ll never know why you did it, I don’t need to know that now. I can never understand what this has been like for you.”

He stuttered, a hand now cupping John’s wet cheek. Wiping at his tears, John felt them begin to ease off, under Simon’s magic hands: his soothing voice; the brutal honesty it conveyed. Simon spoke and spoke, John rode the waves: each word was pounding recklessly into his clenching soul, deeper. He couldn’t comprehend his emotions being ripped at the seams and stolen from him. His heart was beating too fast and Simon kept dishing out apology after apology, the need for John to know he was there and he couldn’t bare to watch him walk away again.

“I won’t.”

Simon stopped his rambling, eyes bleary.

“Sorry Johnny?”

“Charlie I, I’m _sick_ of it. Bloody sick of running and I.. I don’t even know why I still am!” The bassist let out in a huff. “I can’t ask this of you, you would _leave_. You have _every_ damn right too, listen, I can’t keep myself by your side.”

“John, please stop—”

“—Don’t you see?!” His voice hitched, “Charlie I.. I fuckin’... I’ll only _hurt_ you more.”

Simon was shaking his head, sniffling and stifling a sob.

“W-why do _you_, Charlie, keep comin’ back when all I do is.. _push_ you away again?” He was yelling, now almost choking on his own tears, “stop hurting yourself, I can’t.. I can’t” he trailed off, folding his arms and his bangles clattered. “Keep _hurting_ you, like this.”

“John.”

“Don’t! I’m not worthy, okay. I.. I never, never w-was and I, _you_, you have so much to give and I just take and I take and I. No, I _don’t_, Simon, I don’t fucking _deserve_ you.” He screamed. “I keep fucking _using_ you, running from you the moment you ask what’s wrong. I just, I, I can’t apologise for it all enough.”

His words were fast, they trembled and faltered as John engulfed shaky breath after breath.

“Christ Johnny, don't you see? When _haven't_ I been there for you?! Think about it." Simon's voice hitched up, desperate. "Come on, you must remember something!"

Thoughts of the past eight months burnt through his mind. John tried to make a list, failing miserably, brain fuzzy from the confession; all the emotion pouring out of them both. From every pore, from deep within him.

“John, you don’t have to say anything. Just, please, hear me out. _Let me in, _I can’t live like this anymore: you both on one end of the world and shutting me out like this, I can’t do it! It’s too _painful_, heart wrenching, and I can’t keep coming back if you’ll just shut me out again—”

“—_When_ were you here?” John’s voice was small, unsure.

He couldn’t tell what had frosted over those eyes. He felt like he had erected a huge wall between them, he and Simon. Suddenly, the man mere inches from him was miles away again: right where John thought he had wanted him.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“You really, John.” Simon gave him the choice, to patch his heart up again, “you really want to know?”

John didn’t take the bait. Or maybe he did. Either way he was never much of a gambler. John was frozen, enrapt, running it over. It all became clear to him, through Simon’s voice.

“Simon, is there something I should know?”

** _Please, please tell me now?_ **

** **

He had seen it all, the hospital visits and doctors appointments. He had called every time, having been barred from each and every one. He couldn’t come in without John’s consent. A stern warning he didn’t even remember giving.

** _Is There Something I Should Know?_ **

** **

He had watched and tried to comfort him, when John had thrown up in the middle of the street. Stupidly thinking that he could just slip away again.

** _Is there something I should say?_ **

Simon was there in New York, one of the hundreds itching for _The Power Station’s_ album to be released. He was a guest at the after party, more than willing to have been there. John was too whacked out of his mind to have noticed.

** _That’ll make you come my way?_ **

Every session for _A View To A Kill_, John stumbling in on his crutches, John stalking in without word. Simon let him in, he was welcomed whether he felt it or not.

** _Do you feel the same,_ **

** **

He was metres away from him on the set of _The Flame_, knowing full well that he was there. Occupied with the shoot. Barely able to keep himself away.

** _‘Cause you don’t let it show._ **

Simon had yelled in French, over and over, that John was pregnant. That _they_ were pregnant. John didn’t speak much French.

Every Duran had fought for him, during that shoot.

** _Please, please tell me now._ **

Simon and Nick had been in contact with every doctor, be it in the UK and US, scared shitless every time they heard a pause from the other end of the line.

** _Can you see what makes me blow?_ **

** **

John didn’t know how to feel. Betrayed, hurt, mortified? Blinded by his own idiocy, he hadn’t even stopped to think how Simon must have been feeling having known since New Years: seeing John tied to the bed, on drip after drip, knowing _that_ was how his child was being kept alive. The thought was heart wrenching, sickening.

** _Can you see how much I die?_ **

Simon had known in an instant, cocky as ever, that Rio was his. There wasn’t a doubt in John’s mind about that. Even before Nick had arrived at the hospital, Simon had been by his bedside with Roger. Speaking to him, singing to him: voices in his head that he had known were familiar and warm. What he had needed to shake himself from the coma, a familiar face waiting for him. Wanting to see his eyes open again.

** _Every time it passes by?_ **

John couldn’t thank him enough for leaving the drugs and drink out of this.


	35. To Tear Out From Your Eyes, With A Thought To Stiffen Brooding Lies

“That night.. John, in _Paris_.”

John’s eyes widened, his heart beat was rapid and he couldn’t breathe.

“You,” Simon was still crying, “you came—”

“—Stop.”

“Looking.. John, you came looking for me.”

“I can’t, I can’t hear it.”

“John, _look_ at me, please,” Simon grabbed his hands and angled them up to their faces, “you came and I—”

“—Simon, _please!_”

“Screaming and shouting; the worst state I had ever seen you. You wanted it off, all of it.”

John was quaking in his faltering grip.

“John, _baby_, there… there was so much blood.” It was barely above a whisper.

John shook his hands free, gazing heavily upon them.

Cocaine or no, he could still see it. Still feel it. He was still guilty, the stains were too deep. The wounds would never heal.

“There was so much blood, you kept screaming. Yelling in my face to help you, to get it off.”

If there was anything left of John’s heart, the final pieces were now well and truly shattered.

“I.. I _helped_ you. I _didn’t_ turn you away. Do you… John. Do you even remember the bath?” Simon chanced it, voice now firm.

John shook his head.

He had turned away as John had stumbled and undressed. John had dived into the water, then he was lying motionless, pupils dilated and transfixed on the murky brown that lapped up around his cut skin. He had felt the touch, Simon had cleaned him. He had tried, scrubbing profusely to rid John of the guilt; all the evidence washing down the drain. John had just sat there paralysed, until he began frothing at the mouth. Limbs jerking out, wild and disoriented.

Simon had watched him sink. Plunge deep into his own filth, not even trying to keep his head up above the water for him.

“All of us were there John. Roger and Andy pulled you out.” Simon stammered, eyes never leaving John’s trembling form. “Nick and I could barely bring you back.”

John collapsed onto the sofa.

“John, please just look at me” he fought with himself to raise his gaze, “what the hell were you doing?!”

Within moments, Simon was on his knees before him, trembling hands wrapping themselves around John’s own.

“I never, I’m never _leaving_ you again. Not after that, it was the worst.. most freaking traumatic thing I’ve ever seen. You were going to die in my arms, both of you, never again. I mean it, I can’t watch you keep.. destroying, _killing_ yourself like this!”

He was pleading with him, running his fingers in small circles over John’s bruised knuckles.

“I’m here and you’re not sending me away again. I can’t do it. _You_ can’t do it. What we have is so special and I, Johnny, I need you. I know you need me. Nick and I need you, we need you _alive_.”

John let Simon take his weight, now a quaking mess as he came undone once more, now into the leather coating Simon’s shoulder.

  
“We need you _alive_.” He repeated, voice firm.

“Why,” John wiped at his nose, bangles clinking, “why do you keep comin’ back to me?” It was quieter, even more unstable. “Find the one you.. _love_, who can give you all that love back and more.. who won’t u-_use_ you, will.. fuck, make it a.. p-partner, _partnership_ and who will.. be there for you. By your side, through it all. The way we both know” he paused, breath coming up short, “the way I _won’t_ be.”

John broke down again, shoulders quaking, hands over his face and drenched in tears. He couldn’t even register the touches, the smooth hands that ran themselves through his hair: inching lower to his face; softly caressing his cheek. Wanting him to look up, grace Simon with those beautifully brown eyes again.

“Because I love you, alright!” Simon choked out, bringing John’s head up.

John’s eyes were wide, stupidly wide, the frames did nothing to hide the blush in his face. The heat of his cheeks.

“Because I. _Love_. You. John, I know we didn’t plan on it and you were feeling pressured, lost, and.. yeah, it doesn’t matter now. It happened and I want to be there, I want to be by your side. Not just for the baby, you can’t do this alone. It’s been tearing me up inside for months and every-time you run away.. I keep coming back because,”

John focused his bloodshot eyes on Simon. His parted lips and heaving chest, his ruffled black hair, the warmth he still managed to radiate. The tenderness in those touches, the need in which his voice conveyed: how close they were; how he fell into his grasp again.

Being sure to answer this time; when Simon, no stranger, called.

“Because, Jo- _Nigel_. I love you so bloody much that it drives me _insane_, _Nigel_ John Taylor. You keep me up at night with your breathing. I can feel your touch long after you’ve gone.”

John bit into his lip, blinking at the pain his tears still bought him.

“Christ Johnny, I fucking _know_ you’re there even when I can’t see you. I can.. feel.. _feel_ you, all of you, you’re ready and waiting for me. You _wanting_ me there, you don’t even have to say the word and I’m there. Right by your side, all the way. When _haven’t_ I been?”

“Charlie, I” his voice was hoarse, “I-”

Simon’s eyes darted upwards.

Somehow finding it within him, John uttered: “Don’t say you're easy on me. You’re about as easy as a nuclear war.”

“What?” There was a pause, a small giggle. “It doesn’t have the same effect if you don’t do the pointing thing.”

Now it was John’s turn to cock his head. He steadied himself, still tasting salt.

  
“They really did look like morons in those uniforms.” Simon continued, trying to draw out the lighter moment.

With a shaky breath, “Don’t say you’re easy on me. You’re about as easy as a” John emphasised it with three accusatory motions, “nu-cle-ar war.”

“A damn _civil_ war, both deploying the nukes.” Simon chanced a small smile, clutching at John even tighter.

John couldn’t help himself, he chuckled upon finding that he no longer wanted the glass tile beneath his feet to trip him up and scar him, make him bleed out.

There was a sense of ease, the anger was beginning to subside. John’s head was incredibly heavy, too many the lights and emotions thrashing about his tired mind.

What happened next truly stunned him. As to why he wasn’t sure, it wasn’t as though he had ridden those waves before.

“When the sun drips down bedding heavy behind, the front of your leathers all shadowy lined. And the droning engine throbs in time, John, with _our_ beating hearts.”

“S-_sing_,” John gasped looking deep into Simon’s watery eyes.

Simon’s head rose, he inched even closer to John.

“_Blu-ue.. silver-er_.” Together, they found their key: both the supporting act; the right tempo and rhythm.

Upon seeing the heat, finding himself lost in the moment, John shot a hand forward and again wrapped it around Simon’s.

Rio was twirling, dancing merrily, waltzing and doing the foxtrot. A tango, the Argentine Tango as John drew Simon’s deft hand in closer. It came to rest atop of him, their daughter. Simon felt her beat, lived her rhythm for the first time.

“Sing, _Sing_” bursting into tears it was miraculous that Simon held the note, “Blu-ue Silver- er-er.”

The instrumental hit full of pounding synths and snares; the whistle guiding them and they were a tangle of limbs, so consumed in the other, their taste and scent. John’s will caved, tongue swirling in perfect time with Simon’s: waltzing to their own beat. He panted into Simon's ready mouth, swallowing sacred saliva and sharing blessed breath after breath. He craved it, thriving off of it: the precious life force that Simon bled back into his veins, waking him up, igniting something deep from within him. It felt like home, like John had never left.

Breaking away, John keened and threw his head back. Simon’s delicate lips traced his jaw in tender patterns, delivering hot and quick kisses up the length of it, lighting his fire, rounding down to his exposed neck. John was trembling, whining, thrusting himself back into it: claiming Simon’s lips in his own again.

Pulling away, John savoured every breath. Their pants intermingled, their heart beats already so in sync.

“And watching lovers part, I feel _you_ smiling. White glass splinters lie so deep in your mind.” Simon’s voice began to find itself, hitting the right key and making John melt with it. 

“To tear _me_ from your eyes, where the thought’ll stiffen brooding lies.”

“And I’ll _never_ watch you leave me further behind.”

Together they sat, John’s voice poor as ever, somehow it sounded even better wretched from his dry throat. They sounded perfect, absolutely in time, moulding the lyrics to suit them: to frame them. To flaunt them in the best light: front and centre of a stage all of their own.

John let Simon serenade him. John let himself get lost in the rhythmical trance, hearing the flutes and letting them guide his hands.

In a swift motion he raised his palms, both open and inviting. Simon immediately got it, bringing his own up to meet him. When they touched, John felt the spark. He felt the jolts running between them; burning so hot that the only way to cool himself off was to lose himself in Simon’s soothing baby blues. The ones that were coated in pure lust, a need and a want for him. The ones holding such love and adoration that John, with a muffled cry, drew himself in even closer.

Now knee to knee, their palms were moulding together. This time Simon took the lead, curving them around in a circular motion. Slow and steady, steady and slow. Fitting right to the beat, the tinkly music that framed their stance as together they rocked, palms flush, a victim to their own body heat. When John pushed, Simon pulled back. When John leant in, Simon was already there, plush lips inviting, ready to meet him.

Simon was his home, his everything.

  
_ **Known as Duran Duran.** _

“I-”

  
_ **There’s more to this kind of camouflage.** _

There wasn’t a chance in hell that he would be running again.

  
_ **More than just colour and shape.** _

“Charlie, luv, I.”

  
_ **Who’s crawling now? Back to the bed where he belongs?** _

There were still plenty of unmentionables, the unspoken variables that were pounding in his mind. But tonight, his birthday, that didn’t matter. He could rest easy, content, with Simon by his side if he so wanted. By God, did John want it.  
  


_ **Listen.** _

  
“I _love_ you, too Charlie. Fuck I.. I never, _never_ stopped loving you!”

***

Beautifully calloused, tingling and tormenting fingers trailed slowly down the burning, slick skin of his front man.

The bassist breathed in, shaky, and released it: in a perfect scale of moans.

The singer picked up his speed, dexterous fingers plunging lower, teeth nipping at the elongated column of his throat, tongue swirling, in a rhythm all of their own.

  
Those torturous fingers clasped his sides, skirting down the grooves of his cut hips and shoving the name of it deep into his ear: _my bass god is here and John, he better not be running anywhere before morning._

His bass god groaned in response which screamed: _he’s not, Charlie. He’ll never leave your side._

The kisses were hot, intense, wild and free; sharing moans and saliva as they rocked to their own beat.

Together they groaned, grinding together as the perfect crescendo washed over them: the perfect instrumental section.


	36. Someday, Somehow, Someone’s Gotta Pay

Groggily, a huge hand felt about the bed. With a small ‘oomph’ John found himself smiling, eyes still shut, smiling against smooth skin. He nuzzled it, creeping in even closer, fingertips wandering languidly up and down, up and down, before coming to settle on a toned chest.

With a small chuckle, John pried his eyes open upon feeling a nipple harden under his light touch.

“Mornin’” He was met by a bright and beautifully blue gaze, focused heavily on the flush in his face: his ruffled hair and rumpled sheets.

“Did we?” John asked, motioning to the clothes he was still wearing. His nightshirt having ridden up to sit atop what were once his cut hips.

“No John, we _didn’t_.” It was blunt, no riddles.

“We didn’t?”

John couldn’t sense any remorse or hatred in that tone. But it wasn’t exactly light or caring, he supposed. Before John could muster up his answer, the stupid look of confusion prompted the voice to plough on.

“We won’t, not until _you’re_ ready.”

Why John couldn’t remember last night, who he was lying with, didn’t exactly shock him. The fact that they hadn’t, he hadn’t wanted too (or was he unable?) startled him more.

Clambering up to rest against the headboard, his black bangles clanging together, his tired brown eyes scanned the room. He couldn’t see them, the unmentionables, nor could he hear their welcome calls to him. As such. Maybe. Maybe they were, maybe John was calling back.

A smooth hand in his hair, the light tug, pulled him back into reality: shaking him from his wayward thoughts. He let those keen fingers guide him, caressing his overgrown brunette curls, to rest upon a strong shoulder. It was bare, the touch was hot and it made John shiver. His eyes were already beginning to slip back shut. He ground his hair into it, desperate to absorb every scent, desperate to explore the miles of tan skin that were readily made available for him.

But why hadn’t he done that last night?

“Charlie” he began, coughing, “what did.. what _did_ we do?”

_To have you, have you._

John rose his gaze, clasping Simon’s hand around his.

_I do it all to have you._

“_I_ didn’t do a lot.” Simon stated, heated gaze landing on John and his fingers that were now laced together. “We talked and talked, discussed a lot of things,” he trailed off but still had a tint of something darker in his eye.

John let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You had _other_ plans last night... this morning.”

“Other plans?”

John knew what he was referring to in an instant. His head twitched, mouth dropping open.

“You told me Charlie.. _everything_.” He was desperately trying to change the subject, ignoring the sudden emptiness in his veins.

“This body’s desperate for something new.”

“What?”

He was met by a small smile, rueful, those perfectly plush lips quirking upwards and yet John was still being drawn to them.

“This moment’s madness sure to pass.”

John momentarily scoured every _Arcadia_ track he had heard, drawing a blank. 

“You can, steal away in the morning. Love’s already history to you.”

The lyrics were beautiful, cryptic, although it appeared that Simon’s shoulders had quaked, he had straightened up. He didn’t seem so forthcoming, willing to let the beat sway them both.

“When it comes you steal away.”

“I..” John felt himself twitch again, the aching veins were stifling, “I.. _need_ it.”

Their gazes locked, a daring blue on a wavering brown.

“A Mat-ter Of.” His voice was melancholy, barely hitching above a whisper. “Fee-li-ing.”

It was not at all like Simon.

“Charlie, I.” John broke away, shuffling to the side of the bed.

Simon liked noise.

“I.. uh, I.”

Simon liked waking up the house.

John could feel Simon’s heated gaze on his back as his eager fingers started pawing not too deep into the drawer. Simon didn’t say anything, the muted ‘shush’ of the sheets telling John that he was moving behind him.

“I _need_ it.” John repeated the mantra.

Trembling hands, watering mouth, his eyes were wide as his precious powder littered the bedside table.

“What’s the, _fuck yeah_,” he sniffed, jolting, “s-son.. _song_ called?” He violently huffed another line.

There was a pause, excruciating and painful.

“Come back to me and you’ll find out.“ Simon uttered, voice taught.

He didn’t dare turn, John just convulsed in his own enclosed ball. Wrapping his trembling limbs around Rio, he couldn’t keep still. Teeth gnawing into his bottom lip, rocking back and fourth on his heel: John kept quiet and reserved. The drugs were swirling, burning him up. Ready or not?

When John sprung into action, about a foot in the air, he couldn’t see anything. It was hazy, the colours oddly muted. His right eye twitched. Once. Twice. His lips dropped open and a choked moan escaped.

Quaking, a single tear pelted his cheek. He didn’t know what a natural high was anymore, how to ride out the sensation.

“_Simon?_”  
  


***  
  


“The bloody hell are _you_ doin’ here?!”

John was winded, having plodded on for what felt like miles but in reality was only two flights of stairs. He plonked himself down into a not at all comfy plastic chair, coaxing Andy down with him. Andy immediately wrapped John in his arms, careful not to squish his baby girl, before pulling away with laughter.

“You really shouldn’t’a come out all this way alone, Johnny” Andy stated, string beaten fingers gesturing wildly. “You should be takin’ it easy!”

“Nice name for a song if ya ask me” he grinned, waggling two eyebrows as the guitarist matched that smile with one of his crooked own.   
  


John wove a hand through the ties on his blue silken jacket, before running his fingertips up its stripy collar. That was the feature he loved most about it, the conflicting patterns and colours all worked so well together. He obviously could no longer actually tie it across his chest but, with a small chuckle, it dawned on him that he when he about managed that all those months ago for _The Power Station_ album photoshoot: the bump was still visible. It was like his girl didn’t want to be covered, she wanted her chance to say _hello, it’s me bitches_.

“Way ahead of ya there Tigger and _Tiny_ Tigger!” Andy let it linger, John let it settle in again. “How are we doing, _JT 2.0?”_

John found himself giggling as Andy engaged in deep conversation with his daughter, he nodded along, gesturing wild in agreement. The guitarist, a little out of it, seemed content with John just not speaking to him: obviously more thrilled by what Rio had to say. The tinkle of John’s bangles running their way up and down his wrist was the only sound he himself could hear.   
  


_Daddy Taylor and his bracelets._

“She kicks like mad around you, you know?”

Andy paused, raising his brow as he cocked his head up.

“She really does love _Murderess_.”

Both Taylors grinned, what a great song choice.

“Taylor bond runs deep don’t it _Tigger,_ huh?”

John’s grin was blinding. He felt his heart swell in his chest.

“She’s gonna love her rocker uncle Andy. Always someone to make her laugh.” John added, a tinge of something sweet on his tongue.

“Only bloody laugh?” Andy barked out. “Gor, probably best ya don’t answer!”

Bloody laughter, which had overtaken John again. He rode out that wave, clutching at his chest as it shook. But he knew, Rio kicking at him another reminder, what he was here to do.

When John was coming back to whatever senses he may have had left, the mood began to shift.

“Can’t believe she won’t be my little Rio.. in _here_ much longer.” John’s tone was quiet, his voice wobbled. “Madness.”

“I would say ya built her a nice home but uh, I think she’d much prefer it ‘ere... with us.” John expected that sort of thing to leave Roger’s mouth, albeit much more eloquent.

Andy’s words didn’t resonate with him, the underlying meanings, yet.

_The Power Station _Tour was merely weeks away, he was still undecided about what he should do. He was torn, itching to be in the spotlight for the album he was so damn proud of and having to watch from the sidelines with a baby in hand. Or, he would be huddled up in front of the television set, squinting, with a baby in one hand and his bass baby in the other. It was splitting his heart in two: knowing that John couldn’t share this with her; his biggest achievement in a long time.

With a huff and Andy’s helping hand, John rose to standing. He simply nodded and Andy stalked away.

John took in his sights, how the screens dwarfed him, how he was lost in an ocean of seats. He was a mere speck, a disruption, who really shouldn’t have been there. The stage was mere metres away yet it felt like a mile. John wasn’t sure he could make it, traverse it, standing proud where he loved to be. Right up front and to the left, be it of Simon or Michael.

Upon Andy’s return and Tony’s waving hand, John took the shaky steps up to join them on stage.

“_Someday_ from the top?”

John looked over his shoulder, his bass beckoning him to her. To caress her, to use his strong grasp and guide her through the song. To pluck her, to strum her, to deafen them all with her pulsing beat. John ignored every internal nightmare, every scream of _no, don’t even fucking try, you idiot_ and strutted (as much as one could strut at eight months pregnant) straight to it. Eyes locked and knuckles cracked, his limbs were loose and he was ready.

Upon his arrival, Michael flung himself at John and John was always down to get handsy with him: his own pesky digits wandering straight to cup his butt. Not that either man minded. John squeezed and Michael snapped his hips forward, both groaning then laughing at the contact.

“It’s great having ya here, JT!” He winked before heading straight for the mic up front and centre.

John decided to sit the first couple tunes out, he needed to observe. Plus standing up with that bass in hand was no easy feat these days, she was very heavy and his back didn’t really like that. John was atomised, mesmerised in a Girl Panic, by Michael’s vocals. He had such a distinct style, knowing when to push and when to reign himself back in. It was incredibly strange, John knowing it should have been Robert up there shining, but John found himself quickly falling deeper and deeper in love. His stage presence, working off of Andy, weaving in and out of Tony’s beats… Michael was a natural. He had found his place within the supergroup incredibly fast. He was calling to John, luring him back up.

“You can do this, we know ya can!” He whispered in his ear, before prancing back to his mic stand.

“We’ve got to decide on how to fill the twenty tonight!” It took John a moment to unravel Tony’s words.

** _I will protect you,_ **

** _Nothing can hurt you,_ **

** **

“Has _Schwarzenegger_ written all over it. Nice job, guys!”

** **

** _No storm clouds gathering terrify._ **

** **

“Got that right, Johnny Boy!” Michael was howling, half grinding up against Andy as he did so.

The synths were pounding deep. The drum smashed every beat, the guitar amplifying the frisson of power the three men ignited. They were just waiting, waiting for John to find himself. To find his bassline. Knowing when to push and when to pull, to pluck and when to strum like his life depended on it.

A little more careless that what he would’ve wanted it to be, he tossed his bass around him and groaned: slamming straight into Rio. He immediately apologised.

“C’mon Johnny. You can do it, find that spot!” Andy yelled, fingers running maniacally over his guitar strings that it caused John’s eyes to widen and head to pound.

By God, did he love it.

“This isn’t meant to bloody work, you twat!” Was John’s answer, fiddling with his strap.

** _I am a mountain,_ **

** _Surrounded by your love,_ **

_Surrounded by who’s love? _

** _You are a mountain that dreams are made of._ **

** **

_My.. my dreams?_

** **

John had never heard the track in full. He was astonished, well and truly. It was unlike anything he had heard, it was overpowering in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

More than ready to fling his prized bass to the other side of the stage, John’s fingers plunged to his strings and just plucked away. He kept shifting angle, moving his bass up and down, the frustration seeming to bleed away into something softer.

** _Somewhere... somehow... someone,_ **

** **

He was finding his rhythm, strokes still careful. Not very John Fucking Taylor, much more like a shy and timid _Nigel, _meeting Roger and Andy Taylor for the first time all over again. Having to muster up such courage to shake hands with them both all over again.

** **

** _Somewhere... somehow... someone._ **

** **

Duran in 1981. Yeah, okay, there’s still Nigel. But not for this, the supergroup. There would be no Nigel here, it was simply forbidden.

** _We fight for love._ **

John’s ears pricked up, upon hearing the actual title.

** _We fight for love._ **

He couldn’t help himself, the images whirring about his mind. His fingers picked up speed, running hot down his stings.

** _Fight for love._ **

** **

_Not now. Not fricking here._

The rehearsal steamrolled on, guitars blaring and synths strengthening, John found himself getting lost in the lyrics. They pounded their way through him, his head and his heart.

_Please don’t._

John’s inner pleads were pointless, his shoulders had quaked and the blush was already forming on his cheeks.

** _We fight for love._ **

_You did._

** _We fight for love._ **

_I didn’t._

** _Fight for love._ **

_Why don’t I fight for us, Simon?_

John kept strumming, fingers plucking until they were raw. His tears didn’t stop coming but he shunned himself away each time a band member tried to comfort him. He blamed the hormones, losing himself in the music. For trying to find himself on the stage again, John was doing a truly shit job.

He refrained from smashing his bass in two, yanking off string after string. Spine hunched and panting, John placed her on the floor and began to stumble backwards, wiping away at the light layer of sweat that coated his forehead. Barely hiding his tears, the pains now shooting up his lower back, he ignored Andy’s cries to come back and talk to him.

The supergroup had five weeks until the tour, even less until _that_ performance. The biggest gig they would ever know.

The supergroup had days to find John’s replacement.

  
***  
  


_Ten days. July 10th. Ten days_. It was blaring through his mind. A mere ten days and, in theory, John would be welcoming his beloved baby girl into the world. In the public eye, thankfully she wouldn’t really be. Not with the biggest show featuring every superstar musician on the planet straight after.

“Goddamn Geldof stealing our spotlight!” John joked, holed up in his room, whilst calming the tap dancer within his stomach.

The other hand began to wander to his sore nipple, to fondle the A-Cup, _or was it B?,_ that he now had. They were all kinds of odd: pregnancy tits. If there was ever a perfect time to pierce them, he should do it now. John was so damn gracious to every divinity out there that he wasn’t one of those cases who ended up with boobs as big as his head, struggling to manoeuvre those melons. Something he, as a perverse, twenty-five year old, cock-driven man was supposed to love.

“It’s all for Baby. It’s all for Baby Taylor.”

John found himself muttering, chanting under his breath pretty much all the time now.

“It’s all for Baby Taylor.. Le Bon.”

He was no longer alone in his prized Taylor sanctuary. Andy was back, not that he had ever really left New York in the first place. They were expecting Nick and Simon in two days, Roger another couple days later. The four of them had a mere week to prepare, to try and find themselves within each other again. He couldn’t bear to think into the arrangements any more, it was too painful.

John himself would surely be watching from the sidelines. Everything was hanging in the balance, where he was, where Rio was, where Simon should and shouldn’t be. It was tearing him to shreds inside, a once in a lifetime star studded performance. 

They even had another guitarist on speed dial, Cuccur—who the fuck knows. John couldn’t remember, Andy had stumbled with the name. Some guy Simon knew from somewhere somehow. This guy was mega talented, as the story goes, and was more than ready to trade in his precious six strings and dumb himself down to four.

John decided that he owed the bloke a beer. Or ten, when he was ready to head back to Brum.

It would be a mere week of exhausting rehearsals in the hopes to find _Duran Duran_ again. Their sound, their image, their stage presence. The chance to rock the music world, literally, in-front of millions. The prospect, no matter how much he tried to bite back and force it down, scared John shitless. Maybe even more so than pushing Rio out of his— _wait, we aren’t doing that. Right? My what?_

“Thirteen fucking days till the shit hits the fan, Rio.” John was petrified, his voice hitching when he couldn’t feel her dancing within him anymore. “They’ll be in front of the _whole_ damn world. Time to say our prayers.”


	37. Some Days Are Strange To Number

“If I listen close, I can hear them singers ohhh-woah-oh.”

Rehearsals were in full swing. All five Durans crowded onto the leather sofas and footstool.

“Voices in your body’s coming through on the radioo-woah-oh.”

The air was uneasy. The beats weren’t in time. Voices were raised and voices were hushed. Vocals were straining and hands were string beaten.

“The _Union Of The Snake_ is on the _cliiii_-I-imb.”

John just kept quiet, only excusing himself for a bathroom break every now and then and needing help getting to his feet.

“It’s gonna race, gonna break. Gonna move up to tha, bor-da _liii_-ii-y-yine.”

They sounded awful, well and truly out of sync. He didn’t even dare to pick up his bass, only longing gazes would fall to her smooth curves and tempting strings.

They had argued over and over when it came to him. His place, his replacement. As Duran inched closer to the fateful day, John found himself never alone. He just couldn’t be, it was too risky. No drinks were to be poured and no drugs to be huffed. John made it clear that he didn’t mind but every time he attempted to protest it, he would get a manicured hand to the face by Nick and he watched them pool all their cigarettes together and magically, the nicotine vanished from John’s sight.

He had truly done well with the latter. Almost four months without his lungs being choked and coated in tar as such, still a little fag as and when the event called for it but honestly: he was proud. Maybe that was an addiction that he could relent too. Maybe not.

There were only three bedrooms for the five men. Thankfully no one seemed to make a big deal out of it all, each band member avoided the sea of baby toys and gear that now littered the Taylor penthouse. John and Baby Taylor owed Rocker Uncle Andy big time. Heaven forbid how much of a debt he would be paying when his daughter would be screaming the place down at 1am.

_Woah, one thing at a time._

“You don’t.. have to.. you know,” John gestured to the body that began to sprawl out on the sofa. “You could.. Simon, _with_ me.” John had stated the first night, voice small and eyes darting about everywhere. “Please I, we.. we want you here, here with us.”

John motioned to his bedroom door knowing full well that Simon didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. But the love they held for each other, no matter how fragile it may have seemed, drew them back together a little more so each day. John welcomed Simon back into his bedroom where he vowed, _they_ vowed, to not leave each other’s side.

John awoke every morning throwing up, _been a while- strange_, and Simon was right beside him to hold back his hair and to sweep the sweat from his forehead. Whether his sickness was purely due to his daughter he didn’t know. The fear of the dreaded unknown.. yeah, that playing it’s part he understood.

He could see the worry in those striking blue eyes, as the days were drawing to an end. They were almost there, the five of them having almost completed his journey. Having ridden out the highs and the lowest of the lows alongside John.  
  


***

Duran didn’t let him out of his sight. There was a roster, or something, baby watch. Literal baby watch. The mood had shifted throughout their week for the reunited snakes. Together they all sat, drowning in the _what ifs _and _what would happens_, John rocking back and forth, being choked by his own spit.

He didn’t feel anything. Everything was the same. Head lolling back atop the sofa, John let his eyes slip closed and let a small moan escape, the damp cloth soaking up the sweat.

“Thanks Rog, you angel of a drummer.. you.” John babbled, pulse beginning to settle.

John couldn’t see him but knew full well that Roger was smiling. John could feel it, that warmth. They just had that connection, the bassist and the drummer, he just knew.

“It’s no problem John. How are you feeling?”

He didn’t feel any different.

“The same,” he uttered, frustrated. “I just, I just want to _see_ her already!”

Roger simply nodded and they both felt the weight of the sofa shift.

“When am I,” John felt his face flush, “gonna.. see her?” He cried out, turning to Nick in hopes that he had all the answers. “I don’t feel anything, _nothing_ has changed. Blimey, I.. shouldn’t I.. you know, by now?”

Surrounded by Nick to his left and Roger to his right, John was hushed, hugged, reminded that it was okay. This was normal, especially for the first child.

“Everything hurts, I’ve never felt so bad!” He exclaimed, grounding his head back down and letting Roger lay the cloth across his eyes.

“What hurts, Nigel?” Nick asked and John knew that Nick was more aware of what he was feeling than what the keyboardist made out. He always did, Nick in regards to Nigel, being able to read him like an open book.

When it came to John, that’s where things became more complicated.

John answered as best he could, barely able to format coherent sentences and steady his breathing.

  
“We can order, oh what is it again, something spicy?” Roger quipped, eyes landing on Nick for confirmation.

“You know Nigel, he can’t handle the heat.”

John just groaned louder, shutting Nick up. He cocked an eyebrow in silent retaliation.

  
“_Sex_ can induce labor Johnny!” Andy called, head popping out of his bedroom door.

“Oh I.. no, I don’t think I” John paused, considering. “Huh, umm.”

“Let’s get outta here Nick, you can practically see his erection about to burst.” Roger chuckled gesturing wildly to John’s lap.

“Haven't had a handle on _that_ in a long time.” John grunted, albeit thankful for the sudden shift in mood.

  
Each Duran fought back a dig at that.  


Having caught wind of the conversation, a pickle jar in hand for John, Simon swept in behind them. Craning his neck, he leant down and John tipped his head upwards, cloth dropping to the floor, exposing his neck and a flushed slither of chest. Their lips met, only chastely, but John immediately felt more at ease. Well, as at ease as he could’ve been in that moment.

Grounding out his words, John’s eyes didn’t quite follow Simon as he rounded the sofa to perch in place of Nick. “Would you Charlie.. you know, with me. Like this?”

  
Simon perked up, surprised gaze flickering over each band member. Nick’s brows raised and Roger’s lips pursed. 

“Cover your eyes and ears, boys!” Andy chuckled, again relieving them of the awkwardness.

  
“I’d like to maintain some of my sanity, and picturing my pregnant baby brother... no thank you” Nick chimed in, nodding to Simon who now was massaging John’s stiff shoulders. 

Their laughter interweaved at all keys, from Simon and Roger’s low and hearty, to Nick’s light and airy. John and Andy found themselves somewhere in the middle, usually John had the high pitched laugh that was funnier than the actual joke itself.

The excruciating hours passed with such a slowness that John was convinced that the universe was conspiring to torture him sober. Force him into a state of undeniable consciousness that he would do anything to slip himself free from. Wake up to find a baby sleeping peacefully beside him, tubes running from him.

  
Unable to keep still yet unable to pace about, he gnawed at his nails until they bled, also reluctant to find solace in Simon’s touches, Roger’s kind words, Andy’s jokes and Nick’s very presence.

“I don’t feel any bloody different!” John whined, sprawled out on the sofa, well aware that he wasn’t getting up any time soon. “Fuck me in the ass!” He whined.

  
“Uh,” Simon piped up, “we have _company_ Johnny?” He let out a small laugh.

“Shit, not what I meant.”

Swallowing audibly, Simon crouched down so he was face to face with John. Turning his head, Simon caught John’s needy guise. His eyes wide, bloodshot, from behind his thick frames.

“You need to try sleep—” Simon began.

“—Kiss me.” John wasn’t even sure his words could be heard. He gulped, then licked his lips. “Kiss me _please_.”

With the precious flicker of a small smile, Simon was on his knees and John allowed his hands cup his own puffy cheeks. His tears were falling from behind the frames, rolling languidly down to pool atop his collar bones. Simon was quickly brushing away each one with his plush lips, caressing all over before inching down to John’s own: parted and waiting.

Simon helped him up, easing him into a comfortable rhythm and John let Simon claim him. The kiss was deep, no tongues, just a perfect mould of the two men’s lips.

Upon breaking away, John’s eyes were still shut. His lashes fanned as he slowly peeled them open, blinking, finding Simon’s handsome face mere inches from his own. Their noses brushed once, twice, and their lips met again.

“I _love_ you so much, Simon” he stated, voice trembling. “I’ll never.. _never_ leave you, again.”

After a beat, “I won’t be leaving your side. Please John, try and sleep. I’ll be right here if anything happens.” Simon began, rising to his feet. “I’ll be right here, in this chair.”

“_No!” _John barked out, refusing to let Simon slip from his grip. “Sorry Simon, I, uh, yeah you.. you do that.”

Upon seeing the panic, the loneliness and shock poorly concealed in the thick Nigel frames, Simon immediately crouched down before John again. He perched, cross legged, bare feet soaking up the plush carpet.   
  


“I’ll stay right here, I won’t stop holding your hand.”   
  


Taking John’s raw fingers in his, John was mesmerised. He watched Simon kiss each knuckle, eyes firmly on his flushed face the entire time. The singer began to massage his hand whilst John was falling deeper into his tender touches.

Raising to all fours their gazes were now inches apart: tired blues on beaten down browns. John’s eyes slipped shut hand he craned his neck downwards; letting Simon’s lean fingers grasp at the sides of his face. Slowly, Simon peeled his glasses away, removing the last of Nigel’s worry and upset: his cover, his shield. John let out a small moan, it was only brief, but it spoke volumes of the bond forming between them. It was like the bassist had never left in that tender moment, almost.

With a pleased sigh, John nodded. “I’ll try, please watch over us Charlie.”

“I always will, you know that John.”

Biting into his bottom lip, John murmured, “you could.. be a.. a _father_ tomorrow.”

“_Today._” He was corrected, with a wink.

“Oh right, shit.” Always one to break the moment, “goodnight Charlie.”

  
“Goodnight John. Goodnight baby.” Simon’s voice was soft, as he lay his free hand atop of John’s bump.

  
“We’ll see you soon.” It was wistful, rolling off of John’s lips.

No Duran could find peace that night. John was encouraged to try, try to nod off to Simon’s sweet voice that had causing him hell all week, but his own inner turmoil, fears and anxieties were blaring through his mind. It was constantly running wild. 

And besides it was no longer the tenth, Rio was officially late. The mere thought of that was terrifying. 

  
***  
  


Panting, a victim to his tired eyes and aching back, John found himself hunching over. Only when he felt a deft hand on his satin-clad shoulder did he straighten up.

“It’s gonna be okay, I know that’s not what ya wanna ‘ear now but JT, Johnny look at me.”

John forced down his frustrations.

“I don’t feel any different Ands, I really fuckin’ don’t.”

The voice was growing softer, beckoning John to turn his head and to throw himself into those open arms. He took in Andy’s shielded gaze, before the guitarist slipped his shades into his pocket and broke away. He graced John with the softness in his pale eyes that had grown so common over the past few months, John really questioned what he would do without it, without that re-assurance from his partner in coke-raving crime everyday.

Together they both stood, the bassist and guitarist, clad in luxe leather and satin, with one band a step to the left and the other a flick to the right. John’s head snapped comically between both, the disarray that was _Ar— no, not here they aren’t. Duran Duran_, he reminded himself, and the temptation to let himself run free with his pride and joy: _The Power Station._

_I’m insane._

John could feel his pulse beating hard from within. He immersed himself in the notion of his daughter’s drum beat syncing up, falling into step as he gave Simon, Roger and Nick a final glance. They were smiling although it lacked conviction, knowing full well what John had to do. What he and Andy had to do.

_This is insane._

Simon held his gaze, it penetrated deep into John’s soul, which clenched. Flipped. Without breaking eye contact, John watched him strut straight over, the first to break the ice. Strut right too his _Lady Ice._

John was a fan of that track, he couldn’t deny.

_How much more can we take, Rio?_

Simon shot a hand forward, tangling his lean fingers in John’s mousey brown locks to bring him in, snapping him from his lonesome nightmare.

John felt the touch, leaning into Simon as their lips moulded together and his huge bump collided with his flat chest. They danced a slow kiss, without a single care in the world as to who was watching, they were re-igniting flame after flame. Rio was waltzing merrily between them, her pace having slowed down to two-step and sway_._ _What a beautiful lyric that could make- _John wondered, smiling into the kiss.They let it linger, drawing each other in to savour the moment. It was hot and sweet, Simon was the sugar to John’s spice; the blue to his silver: the perfect blend of the two. Slowly, their grip began to falter and Simon pulled away.

It took John a moment to realise, eyes shut and lips quivering, that he had done so. After a beat, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked rapidly, to stifle the tears that were forming, not that he was sure why they were forming.

Simon rested his forehead against John’s own. It was comforting, intimate, the reminder of where he was coming back too. John had a home, he had found home within both bands and- if only for today, tomorrow- that was okay. 

“_Go_, you know where I am,” the words tickled John’s ear, a shiver running through him.

“Where we are.” Nick pitched in.

John nodded, lips quirking upwards rose unveil a small grin.

Pulling away, John pivoted on his heel. He was lured to the red and black drug fuelled tidal wave, as it crashed onto the stadium shore. He swept up in it, revelling in the sudden happiness and need to be with them, bass in hand at their side.

“I’m doing it.”

_You're gonna kill me.  
  
_

“What?” It was a mixture of Andy and Nick.

_We’ll make it through._

“I want too, I can’t not do it. I, how can I pass up on.. _this?_ All of this!” He yelled, gesturing wildly.

_Somehow._

“You’re insane, John.” It was blunt.

  
_Indeed, insane._

“Very.”

John couldn’t hear them, the protestations and concerns for his health. It was ten minutes, he was determined to make it though. Then another twenty with hours in between, his bass wouldn’t be the death of him. After all he had been through, that was too easy.   
  


He had no one to fight with anymore. It was a losing battle, his daughter’s schedule. Surely she would comply for this: one of the most crucial moments in her daddy’s (mummy’s?) professional life.

_An unborn child waits for no man. Woman. Whatever._

“Better have medical on standby” Andy chuckled, shaking his head, bringing John out of his daze. “You better not be going nowhere _Tiny_ Tigger.”

After a beat, the roar from the surrounding crowd that only now John could hear became clear. He was being bombarded by questions, worries. John simply screwed his eyes shut and engulfed a huge breath.

Releasing it, he felt a whole new high surge through him.

“I’m well and truly insane.”


	38. Get It On, Bang A Gong, Get It On!

_**It's 12:00 noon in London, 7:00 a.m. in Philadelphia. And around the world, it's time for Live Aid! ~ **_Richard Skinner, opening the show at Wembley Stadium.

* * *

“C’mon, c’mon! Is everybody in?!”

Bodies kept on swarming, a tipsy push here, a delayed shove there and eventually: they all managed to filter themselves through. The backdrop was nothing special, a tattered old sheet of teal that littered the floor, perfectly imperfect. It portrayed the notion of the gig, how out of sorts, how different each act was. Rocking out, some singing the blues: but here, in this very room, everything could be united under one teal roof. Or backdrop.

“Is everybody in?”

Perhaps not the most iconic setting for the most iconic show of their careers but hey ho, the guys had to cut back somewhere.

“The ceremony is about to begin.”

“All together now!”

“Let’s—” Michael paused, waving madly.

As if on cue _The Power Station,_ in it’s entirety of nine performers blurted out “turn up the heat till we fry-y!”

Laughter pelted the air, there were bear hugs and shoves. It all felt right, warm and welcoming, tinged with foolishness and tons of debauchery. John felt light, he was smiling like a loon and content to keep it that way. For today, this moment, Baby Taylor would be taking a back seat. Surely she could allow her Daddy his moment?

There were screams and hollers as the final members jumped into frame. They had the central four: Tony, Michael, Andy and John either crouching or sitting on the— wait; no. Oh no.

“Johnny, don’t!” He heard the call, as Roger slipped into the room.

“Too late!” Andy chuckled, nodding to John who finally realised they were talking to him.

_Oh shit_.

John’s eyes widened comically.

_I’m not._

He flicked his head over to Roger.

“I’m not.. uh” John continued, now looking down at himself. “Jesus Christ!”

John was already sitting, well aware that it was going to be hard for him to get back up without military operation.

_Goddamnit_. 

“Somebody call the cavalry!” A guy, one of the add ins in white barked, sending the whole cast into a frenzy.

“Hey, at least he ain’t _dropped_ yet! How we holdin’ up JT?” Another faceless guy asked.

Cocking his head he motioned to Rio. “She’s being a good girl today, staying put.”

Turns out the photographer didn’t seem to have much patience for their behind the scenes antics and (eventually) they all shut up and posed. Three shots, in quick succession, that’s all that was required of the supergroup.

“Rog, sure you don’t.. you know,” John gestured to the men, his army of pure power, surrounding him, “want in? You played for us too.”

There was a hesitation, the drummer’s eyes firmly landing on his fellow Taylors.

Roger shook his head. “I won’t be out there with you, it’s not fair—”

“—Bullshit Froggy!” Andy chimed in, rising to his feet.

“_Froggy?!_”

“Who’s the bloody hell is _Froggy?!_”

Andy and Roger’s gazes locked, once Andy slipped his sunglasses inside his black trench coat.

“Am I gonna—” Andy trailed off, rolling up his sleeves. “Have to.. _force_ you, Rog? For knocked up Johnny’s sake?” His tone was teasing.

“Get ‘em Ands! Get that hot piece’a ass!” John called, really wishing that he too could wrestle Roger to the floor and drag him into the shot.

“No.. n-no!” Roger ducked, already well ready to fight Andy off.

They were seriously watching a Taylor tickle fight in the middle of a crappy dressing room amongst a sea of random men.

Now _that_ would make a hell of a biography opener.

  
The way Roger was being (poorly) wrestled to the ground did provide John with a lovely shot of his ass. Such lovely suit trousers.

_Nice angle_. John cocked his head, keeping the focus.

John was laughing so hard that he gave himself the hiccups, in between yelling to Andy which parts of.. uh.. Roger, yeah, which _parts_ of him to target next. Andy was howling, sneaky fingers somehow not enough to change Roger’s mind.

“Get the hell off of me, Ands!” Roger was yelling, not at all mad, by the looks of it more than ready to sock the guitarist one. That was strange.

“If you make JT laugh anymore,” Michael barked out, tipping his head back to motion to the bassist, “he’ll break and soak me!”

  
_Break and soak—_

“—I’ll what and wet who now?!” John stopped laughing. “Oh god!”

  
_Stop it, John!_

After another intense moment of Taylor tickle fighting, John was astonished that Roger let it last so long, Roger bucked Andy off and the guitarist waltzed back into the mess of bandmates.

“Beaten by the Frogman again huh?” John taunted him, voice light.

“Piss off!” Andy whacked the back of John’s head. “Eww, the hair product! Ever heard’a shampoo?” Andy was blunt, wiping his hands on his collar. “Revolutionary for men like you.”

John rolled his eyes, running his fingers through his brown ringlets. “Overrated.”

“Yet you use that _Immac_ shit religiously” he heard Roger laugh.

“Silky smooth boy,” Michael pointed at him, “he is!”

John flipped Andy off with a giggle. “At least I did, back when I could, you know, uh..” 

_“See_ your feet?”

John’s jaw dropped open before throwing his gaze back to Roger. “Who’s side are you on Little Frog?!”

“Not yours.” The drummer laughed, taking a step closer to the photographer and further from the hoard of band mates.

“Are we actually going to take the damn photo now?” Somebody yelled from John’s left. “We’ll be on soon enough!”

_Right. Operation rise to my knees is a go._

John shakily rose to his knees and it took a couple of tries, to lurch forward, now crowding Michael.

_Okay kid, now just don’t whack—_

“—Agh, Johnny! That child’a yours really has a thing for age gaps, yeah?”

_As do I._

“Yup, just like her daddy—”

“—_Mummy!_” Andy bellowed.

“_Wanker_.” John cleared his throat, “just like her.. oh, to hell with it, _mummy_” he paused as the laughter erupted all around him, “wants to feel you up, man. Big time.”

Michael, who seemed to know exactly where John was going with this, deftly avoided Baby Taylor as he leant back into his embrace. John, just generally high on life, clutched at him. Massaged him, through the cotton confinement’s of his wrinkled cream shirt. His deft fingers pried open two of Michael’s buttons, finding the flesh below already a little damp.

“Watch it man, he already found his mate!” Andy joked, knocking into the new front man’s left shoulder to punctuate his point.

“No pair mark, he’s not quite tied down yet,” Roger muttered, standing beside the photographer.

“Sweet Lord. Nothing’ll _ever_ tie JT down, no matter how much sex he’s havin’” Tony looked straight through John as he said it, lips quirking upwards.

_Hey!_

“Hey!”

_Wait a minute._

“Touché. Where is that randy bastard Rog, anyways?”

John dismissed his trail of thought, a steam train of _Charlie this _and_ Charlie that_, before clutching at Michael again. He gave his best front page pout, really sucking in his cheeks hard. Angling his head slightly to the right, John held the pose and was desperate not to chuckle as he continued massaging Michael’s pecs.

_Front page worthy shit, don’tcha think Baby Girl?!_

“Take it, _take_ it!”

_I’m still insane for doing this, though._

Finally, the photograph was taken.

Chuckling, Michael stated “Next up: operation get Johnny Boy back to standing.”

“You’re gonna need a _truckload_ more film.” Andy nudged him, all heads turning to John. “Shit needs to be documented in _full_.”

John blushed, before simply shrugging his shoulders.

Yeah, John would be there a while. Military Operation indeed.

***  
  


_ **“Ah, I think you’ll recognise that face... that’s Don Johnson. The reason that he is here is ‘cuz he will be bringing on Power Station. ** _ _ **Everybody in white’s looking very comfortable. There’s... theres John... scratching his head.”** _

_**  
**_“Yeah, I’m having a good time, too! I want you to welcome some real good pals of mine!”

_They’re bloody mental out there, Rio, well and truly._

“Andy! John! Tony and Michael!”

_Well they were strung up there for ten freaking hours, it’s bound to get a little rowdy. Brace yourself, girl._

“_The Power Station!_”

His engorged chocolate browns focused on the figure. Adrenaline pumping, bass strapped round him and Rio still in place, John engulfed a shaky breath and was practically bouncing on the spot.

Watching as he grew closer, John nodded to Andy who now looked to be half a mile away: checking guitar and amp after amp. John smiled to himself, always a perfectionist.

_Check your Rocker Uncle out baby, gotta get it as loud as he bloody well can! _John palmed his stomach.

“Aww, that’s so cute! He’s talking to her!”

_The hell?_

John searched for the sweet voice, to no avail.

“Up here!”

  
_The hell are people up there for?_

“What are you doing up there, my love?” John threw his head back, eyes focusing on the man and woman with limbs interweaving amongst the scaffolding.

The blonde shrugged. “Dunno, but they are the best seats in the house!”

“I’ll bet!” John called back.

_Freakin’ weird._

Don came running towards him, yelling his name.

John was beaming, smiling so damn much that his cheeks were beginning to ache. A quick brush past and he caught his hot breath.

“You’ve got this JT, kill ‘em! And you-” he crouched before Rio, helping John manoeuvre his bass to the side, “you don’t go anywhere, girl!”

“Thanks Crock— _Johnson_. Thanks Don!”

John still couldn’t believe that he was rubbing shoulders with Mr _Miami Vice _himself. That shoot was a hell of a fun time, John wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Plus Baby Taylor was there, posing for the cameras. Such a good sport.

Don laid a hand on John’s satin clad shoulder, a brief moment to calm him and bring him back to Earth.

“You’ve got this, man.”

The hand fell away and Don disappeared behind the scenes but that was behind John. That didn’t matter. What mattered now was what was before him, the 100,000 people screaming his name. Their name, their supergroup.

**DAY: JULY 13**

Rubbing his palms together, John was bouncing on the spot. Taking a single breath, he paraded out- almost running, diving headfirst into the biggest gig of his life.

**TODAY IS:**

Cameras blared, lights flashed. Andy was grinning like mad. He took a moment, he couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything. His whole world ground to a halt, he was trembling, quaking with it. The excitement, the rush.

  
**THE DAY ROCK AND ROLL CHANGES THE WORLD.**

Out of nowhere he could hear the screams, the cries, he could see the signs: his name. His name over and over, little pops of colour amongst the forefront of the stadium.

_“FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!”_

John was home.


	39. I Know You Like ‘Em To Be Troublesome

They would be setting _Live Aid_ alight, all across the freaking globe.

** _I always knew that she was on the run,_ **

** _I read the paper and it said so,_ **

** **

He was having the time of his life. Strutting about, kicking and screaming. He didn’t hog the mic but was thankful for getting his fill, Brummie tones lost in the deafening hollers of the thousands cheering before him.

** _I know you like ‘em to be troublesome,_ **

** _Take it to the maximum!_ **

John was beaming, well and truly, fumbling with his bass but beaming. His silken jacket caught the breeze as he turned, always gravitating back to Michael up front and Tony behind. He whispered that he was okay, he and Baby Taylor were hanging in there, overcome with it all. Riding the waves. Soaking it all up.

They were having the time of their lives and she hadn’t even been born yet.

** _She's a murderess, murderer,_ **

** _She likes to go for the jugular._ **

** **

They chose to play _Murderess_, John couldn’t thank them enough. It was Rio’s favourite. The deafening beats of his bass were ringing through him, penetrating deep and she was calling back, rocking out just as he did: hitting every accent; hitting every note.

Andy was right there with him. The joy that radiated off of him was blinding. The way his digits ran up and down his guitar were dizzying, hypnotic. John was hooked. They shared the mic, played back to back. Andy even palmed Rio a couple of times, through his cream shirt that framed her so nicely.

“Murderess, murderer!”

But what was the highlight, the peak of the performance?

John was rubbing shoulders with Michael, swooping his bass to the side. Totally lost in the moment John yanked his jacket out of his way, huge bump on show ready to bare all.

“This baby girl of _mine,_” he pointed, “is a kill-er!” John belted, rubbing his hands all over himself. Erotic, _neurotic_, the whole lot.

His head was thrown back and voice was full of pure, unadulterated joy. The thousands were in a frenzy, the heat was stifling and John couldn’t hear himself think. He didn’t need too.

“You’re gonna luv her!”

He was channeling his inner Simon, hamming it up. A little. To hell with it, he was shining.

  
“You tell ‘em JT!” Michael swooped an arm around him and again, they faced the music.

Michael hollered. Andy cheered and Tony smashed those cymbals even harder.

** **

** _Take it to the maximum._ **

** _She’s a murderess, murderer!_ **

He watched with a gleam in his eye as Michael paraded about the stage, bringing each band member their share of the spotlight. He just had the fans hooked, caught in his flame and damn was Michael burning bright. _Burning them up. Ready or not._ John wouldn’t have had it any other way.

** _That woman of yours is a killer!_ **

John was on cloud nine, bass in hand and the supergroup at his side. Nothing could bring him down, he needed it. He needed to ride out his high, live every moment to the fullest.

Michael crooked a finger and John danced his way back over, knowing full well what was next.

“She says she's in-no-_cent_” they belted into the mic, “She says she's your _'baby_ fa-ay-y-ace!” John palmed himself again, giving JFK stadium another full blown view of her, deeming them worthy of her.

John’s wasn’t shy. There was no holding back.

“Who’s kidding who?” They questioned them, arms shooting out, “your things are in a suitca-y-yaise!” 

The thousands piled into the stadium didn’t matter. He could barely hear them half the time. What mattered was he, Andy, Tony and Michael in that moment: all together, perfectly in time and setting the damn stadium alight!

_Some Like It Hot, huh?_

“You ready to _Get It On_ with us?”

_They’ve forecast a bloody scorcher here, in Philly!_

As the killer bassline kicked in, the stadium in hysterics, John took centre stage once more. There wasn’t a chance in hell he would crash and burn.

_Some feel the heat and decide that they can go on! Let’s get at that heat, Rio!_

“She won’t be mine and” John stopped himself, swiping the sweat from his brow,_ “my _Rio much longer!”

They had set _Live Aid_ alight, all across the freaking globe.  
  


***

Within hours John had deflated, having forced himself to walk away from the supergroup and back to what was supposedly home: the _easy_ part. Who the world actually wanted to see. Andy was still beside him, trudging his heels, both looking for a reason to keep smiling.

_The Power Station_ performance highs were long over, John missed them like mad. It was crazy to think what ten minutes could do to a person, how alive John had felt. He hadn’t experienced anything that intense in a long time. There wasn’t a chance in hell that he would be forgetting it. _Duran Duran _had a whole crock of shit to live up too, in ways that he already was well aware that the band wouldn’t. They wouldn’t even come close.

Weren’t they already doomed?

The air was uneasy, thick, a strange claustrophobia that seemed to not only target John, but alienate each and every band member as they posed for picture after picture. Back before the teal back drop, rumpled and ripped since he and _The Power Station_ had posed this morning, it appeared to reflect Duran to him in that instance.

Hang on, surely John was losing his mind. Comparing the fab five to a tacky sheet of paper pinned up behind them...

_All the folds, the crumples, were telling a story of what once was._

...Maybe not, maybe he was still on a coherent train of thought. That was incredibly unsettling.

_What once was fine and pristine had since been beaten down and tired out, losing sense of itself and losing purpose._

Yep, the coherent train of thought was scaring him.

John was comparing them to the shreds in the paper finding that yes, much like the ruined backdrop, Duran too were hanging by a thread. There was just something in the air that night, John would’ve been a fool not too notice.

_Goddamn sobriety._

  
He lit a cigarette to celebrate.

  
_Goddamn nicotine._

  
John coughed, the taste despicable. He stubbed it out. 

In the midst of his internal monologue, someone else had started talking, he drifted in and out for a while. Posing neutral, having taken Roger’s advice and John remained stood up for this session. They couldn’t risk heaving him up again, that was embarrassing as hell- not that John minded Michael’s strong hands on him as such.

He and Simon were towering over Roger in his favourite rich, azure _Anthony Price _suit that he was still flawlessly rocking. Nick was decked out in a luxe satin purple blazer and Andy in a classic black and boxy trench coat that was flowing wherever the hell it wanted. Turning to Simon, Rio brushing up against his side, John surveyed him. John was puzzled over the outfit choice if he was honest with himself, some tribal patterns fighting Simon’s dusty red blazer for the spotlight. It felt weird to see him in those colours, it really did. In _John’s_ own colours. With _John’s_ love for pattern work and printed shirts.

_Well, that’s Arcadia for ya Taylor! Apparently._

Cursing himself as he did so, he was somewhat first to break the ice. “Think this is the first time we’ve all had the same uh, the same,” John paused, motioning to the group, “same hair colour. All black, blacky-brown.”

There was a small hum and nods of amusement, gazed flickering to each other as that yes, John was right there.

“Frankly, we look ridiculous.”

“_Is There Something I Should Know_ was far worse though, sweet Lord” sniggering, Simon’s beady blues landed on John.

“The damned shirts.” Andy pitched in, “who’s freaking idea was _that_ catastrophe again?”

John was still correct and he should say it. They didn’t resemble a unit, a band that had lived and grown together, had been on the road for years and supposedly knew each other inside and out. They were the furthest thing from the (Re)United Snakes that they were at this point. The polar opposites were still there, screaming at them in the face. Although they physically were now the furthest apart, Andy perched on a rickety wooden chair before Simon on his left, only John and Andy seemed to have gotten the edgy, more punk memo.

_But The Power Station is over now._

There was chatter again, as the crew began to disembark. One by one each band member rose to their feet and headed for a secluded corner of the room. They were playing the waiting game now, not much longer.

“… cannot believe he is really doing this.” John caught wind of Roger’s words, worry evident in his tone.

  
_Whatcha say, mate?_

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, this time raising a finger. Closed it again.

  
_I’m still insane. That’s not gonna throw itself out the window._

“But that’s just Johnny for us. He’s just gonna,” Andy fingered his shades, “c’mon Rog, he’s just gonna _Do What He Do_.”

  
_What?_

Simon and Nick were now stood at either side of John. He felt odd, the complete wrong choice of filling in that _Arcadia_ sandwich. Not gothic enough. Too white and pasty. He didn’t smell of roses.

The photographer yelled something and he heard Andy groan. John was pivoted around by Nick and the huddle headed back to the set again. Apparently they didn’t get a good enough shot, lighting or something. Each Duran again took their position, waiting impatiently for the photographer to load up his film and fumble with some lights. John rolled his eyes knowing full well that if Nick was doing it, it would be done right then and there: done right.

“Johnny just will _Do What He Do!” _Ittook John a moment to decipher who’s voice that was.

Andy was sniggering, Roger was biting into his bottom lip: having heard his own words and trying to stifle his laughter.

  
_Oh._

There was a moment, John struggling to concentrate. Simon and Nick turned to each other, Nick throwing his head back and shrugging.

  
_God_.

“What is _that_ even in reference too? Care to enlighten us, Roger?” Nick asked, prodding at his shoulder as his blazer slipped off of it.

  
_Don’t you bloody enlighten him!_ John’s mind was screaming and yet, he couldn’t find his voice.

“What did _you_ do?” Simon’s voice was sly, eyeing John.

John’s eyes widened.

“He do what he do, to have you, have you! He do it all to have _you_, Simon!”

John bit into his lip.

“He do, he do, he do, he do ooh!”

Narrowing his eyes, John fought with determination to both not strut round to Andy and use his bump to whack his sunglasses off of his face and/or fall into a fit of laughter. He wasn’t even mad, he guessed, just astonished that Roger was joining in. The guitarist had taken the reigns with the vocals, adding all sorts of unnecessary emphasis but John would be lying if he said that Andy’s voice sounded poor. Andy sounded _way_ better than him, of course he did.

Even Roger, he still couldn’t believe it, had quickly come to harmonise with him. Now that, John sniggered, was something else.

  
_Fuck them. The world’ll hear me soon enough._

“What the bloody hell is happening?” Simon questioned, prodding John as he did so.

“He do it all to have _you_, Charlie!” Roger was laughing, fixing his eyes on Simon’s own bewildered ones.

_How many months till this gets out? Till Valentines?_

There was a pause. John could sense that Andy was itching to make an omega joke. Simon beat him too it, without realising.

_If they keep this up, they won’t live to see Valentines._

“Get knocked up?”

“Tally- ho!” John barked out, whipping his head to Simon with a shocked expression. “The whole world doesn’t need to bloomin’ know!”

Simon snorted.

“He do, he do, he do ooh!” Roger whined, the pitch stupidly high to resemble.. wait, _when the fuck had Rog even heard the track? When did he even?.. shit.   
_

John broke.

_When did Andy play it him? The little bugger!_

The three Taylors were howling, laughter intermingling and gaining in volume. John had tears in his eyes and was close to giving himself the hiccups. He was more than caught in the headlights. He had been run over by the damned headlights but found, funnily enough, that he really couldn’t give a damn.

“Do you look the way?” Andy began, chuckling, “you _Simon_, wanted to look?”

Motioning to Roger, John watched the drummer swallow his pride. That and John’s own, if he could say he had any left- red in the face and his girl was now strutting to the pulsing ‘uh’s’ and ‘ah’s’ that he knew so damn well!

“Do you feel the way?” Roger croaked out, “you _Simon_, wanted to feel?”

“Will you both shut up!” John yelled, unable to suppress both his blush and actual irritation. 

Simon and Nick shared another look, riddled with confusion.

Then, _damn Taylor telepathy_, on cue, “are you happy now, _Simon_, that _you_ fan-ta-sised?!”

Andy and Roger sang in time, serenading and mocking him. Not that Simon seemed to mind. He had pulled that face he would make when he was about ready to beat John’s ass and/or have a tickle fight until John owned up.

_Oh Taylor boys, it’s on!_

“What the fuck is this?” Simon fought back his laughter, “why are you calling _me_ out?!”

The Taylors bulldozed over him.

“Care to take it, John? I only know tha first bloomin’ verse!” Andy lowered his shades, so John could see his wink accompany his shit-eating grin. “That’s enough!”

“Will you both—”

“—Are you happy now, that you fantasised?!” Roger repeated, setting Andy off again.

_You mother—_

“For fucks sake!” John swiped the tears in his eyes, laughing himself hoarse, “that was supposed to be a _surprise!_”

The look Roger gave him both startled him. The drummer appeared both sly and ready to eat up John’s words. He bit into his lip.

“It’s not a very good one, John.”

Ignoring Simon and Andy’s guffaw’s, John’s mouth dropped open.

“Who’s side are you on, Frogman?” He shot a hand down to Roger, tickling his neck.

Batting him away, Roger span round on his chair. Eyes locking onto John’s own and John suddenly was deafened by the silent order to stop laughing. There was a pause, it was excruciating, killing the mood and bringing John back to reality. Roger’s gaze was deep, meaningful. Full of things that John, in his current state, was neither ready to try and decipher nor would he catch Roger’s meaning.

“_Nobody’s._”

  
It dropped off of Roger’s lips, gazing heavily at John as he spat. 

“My own.”

That was a punch to the gut and he felt his baby do a flip. John didn’t know why.

He shook his head, blowing away the stray strand that fell into his face and forced himself to change course. With a forced laugh, “that’s enough of that, thank you very much, you poofters!”

“Hey Tigger, don’t get the ‘ump with ‘im!” Andy stated, nodding to Roger, “he’s just _doing_ what he do!”

“Fucks sake, Ands!” Both John and Roger were smiling again, John clutching at his chest as it shook through his laughter.

“Will somebody please just tell us what—” Simon cut himself off.

John’s hands had wandered, shot forward, wrapped themselves around Roger and now Simon was doing the same to John.

Roger writhed under his hand, still trying to sing. John cupped his mouth, wriggled him about abit and eventually shut him up. Pulling a stupid face, John puffed out his cheeks and held Roger tight. His bump knocked into Nick’s back as he meant down, causing a small giggle from the guitarist.

“Take it, _take_ it!” Andy yelled, a scowl now back in place.

John couldn’t comprehend Simon’s expression, he didn’t dare to turn his head. He knew full well that Simon was with him here, matching his own truly bizarre expression.

_Always one to steal the spotlight, that Daddy of yours._

“Take the damn photo, whilst he’s quiet!”

_That Daddy of mine._

**Click. **

John’s hand over Roger’s mouth.

**Flash.**

John loomed over Nick.

**Click.**

John puffed out his cheeks.

**Flash.**

John leaned into Simon’s grip.

**Click.**

“You’re gonna _kill_ me with all those words, Johnny!” Simon flung an arm around him as the crew disembarked. “Surely you wouldn’t want that to happen now, would you?”

Smirking, John focused his gaze elsewhere.

It was perhaps the best of the worst photographs they had ever taken. _Duran Duran_. The fab five. Nobody matched, nobody looked as though they were meant to be there. The mood quickly fell back into uneasy territory, the time to hit the stage rapidly sneaking up on them.

It had already become the last photo for eighteen years, little did anyone know it.


	40. Don’t Wanna Be Around, When This Gets Out

Steps small and laboured, _oh God- labor_, John shuffled towards the stage. It was different this time, daunting, pitch black and he couldn’t see anyone. His heart was thumping wild, his mouth was dry and he wanted to screw his eyes shut and feel his way out of there. He wanted to run. He just didn’t quite know who he wanted running with him. Or after him.

Tongue darting out, it ran nervously across John’s bottom lip. He chewed it and rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms together. Ran them through his hair. Planted them on his hips. Felt a chill, rubbed his arms. Dropped them. Gnawed at the cuts seeping deep into his finger tips, where his strings were burning through him, and dropped them again. Where even was his bass? He couldn’t see her, couldn’t sense her.

Rio wasn’t moving, that thought terrified him. Where was that sensation, full of excitement? The thrill that ran within him as she danced her way through each track?

A tap and he felt it. A push and his head span. A shove and he hunched over, gasping for breath. Shuffling to a secluded corner, barely able to see, John splayed himself out and let his head collide with the wall. Desperate to ‘beat’ his headache away, his head made contact again and again as his quaking finger tips rubbed up and down the goosebumps on his forearms.

Catching a second wind, John pushed himself free from the security of the wall and into the next step. The next phase. Twenty minutes and he wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was she.

“John? Johnny, hey, c’mere.”

When had he started whimpering?

“It’s okay, you’ve got this, you can do this” John span around, clutching his head, “look at me, I’m right here Johnny and I—”

The voice was silenced by John’s mouth. By his tongue, which darted straight in, parting those moist lips. For once John dominated the kiss, a needy muscle swirling in and out, licking up and down; shoving the name of it deeper into his throat. John would scream it from the rooftops (or amongst the random stragglers in the scaffolding) if he could get there but right now he couldn’t. He didn’t have too.

Breaking away, John panted as he pressed his own piping hot forehead to the man before him: letting him cool John down; allowing John to again loose himself in the tender touches of smooth skin.

“I _love_ you,” John was kissing him again, “I love you so fuckin’ much Simon, it _hurts_.”

He could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat, stopping on the track. The vinyl screeched, deep from within, the needle bouncing right off and tarnishing the record in the process. There was a sharp twang, which was the only way he could describe it, but Simon was almost out of sight again: being lured by the crowd; heading right back home.

“Wait!” John lurched forward, bump colliding with the singer’s back, “Simon I—”

“—Shut up, John” This time Simon regained his dominance, slamming his lips into John’s parted own to suck him dry one final time.

It was quick, needy, full of love and lust.

Shooting a hand down, John was enraptured, watching as Simon wrapped John’s sweaty palm in his own. Bringing his right hand up, Simon’s lips hovered there for a brief moment. John’s breath was trapped in his throat, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t turn away. Why would he even want too?

He only found himself falling deeper in love as Simon’s precious lips began at his middle finger, caressing the callouses, kissing his protruding veins all the way down to his bangles.

Slipping his eyes closed, John’s head lolled back and he could barely stifle a moan. Only when he heard that soothing, mystical voice did they snap back open.

“Hold tight, onto Daddy’s bracelets,” Simon whispered, lips now tickling John’s right ear, “make them pay for their chances, with money they don't think that's nice.”

His mouth dropped open, it was moving but John couldn’t form any words.

With a chuckle, Simon repeated the upbeat lyrics, adding extra emphasis for the fun of it: “hold tight, onto _Dad-dy’s bray- se-elets_” and John shook his wrist, letting the jingle of his bangles fill the cool air.

It took him a couple of tries but finally, John found the beat.

“You uh,” he was blushing, boiling under the satin collar, “you had written that _long_ before.. I, we, long before we... you know.” John gulped, hand lurching forward.

Lacing Simon’s fingers in his quivering own, John guided them down and together they settled atop of his stomach, searching for the tap dancer within him.

“You had written that _long_ before we were pregnant, Charlie.” He was confident, gaze never leaving Simon’s own.

_We?_

Simon winked and John’s lips inched upwards.

“It was like I always knew.”

_Yeah, we._

At that, Simon’s grip slipped from him. He turned towards the stage, motioning John to follow.

“You better stay put!” Simon nodded to John as his eyes glanced downwards, still smiling bright.

“We will, won’t we Baby Taylor?” John stated, bringing his gaze back to the light in the singers eyes, “Le Bon. Baby Taylor. _Le_. _Bon_.” He punctuated it with a light tap on Simon’s chest.

Swallowing what he could of his nerves, John held out a hand. It was trembling still it beckoned Simon over who took it, took John. Together they walked, heel toe, heel toe, boots clanking on the ground, up the metal steps. Simon guided him, steadied him, helped John remember to breathe.

Finally, John caught sight of his prized bass waiting for him aside the stage. He immediately felt a huge weight lift off of his shoulders and dissipate into the chilly air: he grinned.

Within moments Simon had lovingly swept her around John, helped him to line her up to one side so the whole world could still see Baby Taylor Le Bon, so John could flaunt her for them both.

“Just keep telling me you’re okay. You can do this, John, twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes.” He repeated.

“Do you hear them out there, baby?” The words rolled off of Simon’s heavenly tongue, “it’s _you_ they want now.”

Screwing his eyes shut, John let himself feel. Feel the pounding beats as the thousands stamped their feet; losing himself in the shrill screams, the thousands calling his name. Their name. Not _Arcadia_ nor _Power Station._

“Not_ Arcadia._” Simon’s voice was firm.

_Duran Duran_. And only _Duran Duran. _As though that’s who they still were, that close knit group of young lads (mostly) from Birmingham with the whole music world at their feet. Ready to take on the world again, dominating the charts and touring endlessly again.

“Not _Power Station._”

He didn’t feel that, he wasn’t sure he could recall what that had even felt like to begin with. But that was then, 1981 was a distant memory and for men like John- he didn’t like to dwell in the past, at times.

Sometimes, John reminded himself.

“All they need,” he inhaled a shaky breath, “is _Duran Duran_.”

John took Simon’s hand in his again, grip nice and tight.

“Us.”  
  


***  
  


Synths blared, drums pounded and the show was in full swing. Simon stood front and centre, the only Duran with a spotlight, as he reeled the audience in; twirling and prancing about, letting them hear the sacred _A View To A Kill _for the first time.

The worldwide debut of the track was well and truly one to behold.

** _Could it be,_ **

** _The whole world opening wide?_ **

** **

John was secluded, trapped in the corner far over on Simon’s right. There was a delay, an excruciating pause between he and his bassline for this track and that was worrying.

** _A sacred why,_ **

** _A mystery gaping inside._ **

** **

What if the missed it? Hit the wrong note? What if he plucked till his fingers bled?

The song was flowing though, uneasy, they were hitting snags and they were poorly hidden. Thankfully no one seemed to notice, other than Duran themselves.

What if one of his contacts fell out and he was playing half blind?

** _Dance into the fire, _ **

** _That fatal kiss is all we need. _ **

** **

John’s hands were clammy, he could tell that he wasn’t alone in this lonesome nightmare. Each man was playing, all focus simply on their own instrument, nowhere or no one else.

“Dance in-to tha fy-_er_,” it was strained, a struggle, “the fay-tal sowns of bro-ken dre-e-_eams_!”

John’s head shot up, it was swimming and clouding over. He thought he could see Andy react. He was thoroughly pissed, barely singing along.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

“Da fay-tal ki-i-iss, is ALL WE—”

The stadium fell silent.

The note was mind splitting, soul crushing, piercing deep into each and every man, woman and child. Not just here but through the thousands of television sets throughout the country. Throughout the UK, throughout the world.

Simon would forever be plagued with it, forever be haunted by the worst vocal strain of his career. Stripped of his dignity, his talent: the blunder was heard by thousands. The duff note heard around the world, he had claimed the shameful title.

It ripped through John, stabbing him, sharp and violent. He was screaming with him, it seemed, deafened by his own wretched sound. There was nothing coming out of his mic. His fingers were at a stand still, bass having dropped dead from his fingertips.

John couldn’t move.

** _Some people call it a one night stand,_ **

** _But we can call it paradise._ **

** **

It all happened so fast.

Song after song, synth after synth, John could barely keep up. His mind was a frenzy, running wild, a losing runt within the stampede.

** _Don’t Say A Prayer for me now,_ **

** _Save it till the morning after._ **

** **

He was shaking.

The instrumentals were endless, signalling him out, biting into his skin.

** _The Union Of The Snake is on the climb._ **

** **

He felt numb.

** **

** _It’s gonna race, gonna break,_ **

** _Gonna move up to the borderline._ **

He could barely keep upright.

The guitars were shrill, shattering his gut.

** _I tell you somebody’s fooling around,_ **

** _With my chances on the danger line._ **

He hunched over, groaning.

** _Half time is no time for deciding,_ **

** _If I should find a helping hand._ **

** **

There was no time, he had to get off of that stage.

** _Oh-woah!_ **

The lights were blaring and only Simon could be seen. They were hidden, his back up, his support, yet he couldn’t signal another Duran.

Nick was too far away. Andy was barely at his mic, staring far off into who knew where. Roger couldn’t see anyone past his kit. No one could even see the drummer, be it in the crowd or others on stage. He was thoroughly hidden, completely submerged in the back.

** _So why don’t you use it?_ **

** _Try not to bruise it._ **

** **

John tried, he really did, internally screaming and biting into his bottom lip and poorly covering it all and his bass was slipping from his hand.

** **

** _Why-y-y-y-y, why, why, _ **

** **

Each _why_ punctuated another flip in his stomach, another sharp pain that was literally tearing him open from within.

** _Why-y-y, yeah!_ **

Each _why_ punctuated another thrash in his stomach, another crucial pain that was shredding his insides.

John chanced a glance down, he could barely see past the sweat dropping into his eyes.

** _The Reflex is a lonely child, _ **

** _Just waiting by the park!_ **

** **

He staggered his weight, throwing himself from the stage, immersing deep within the murky shadows.

** _The Reflex is in charge of finding,_ **

** _Treasure in the dark!_ **

** **

His bass was stripped from him and he collapsed.

** _Them watching over lucky clover,_ **

He dabbled over, hands clawing at his chest.

** _Isn’t that bizarre?!_ **

He lay on the ground, tears streaming.

** _Every little thing The Reflex does,_ **

John ran a trembling finger through the slick.

** _Leaves unanswered with a question mark!_ **

** **

They were soaked, his trousers ruined.

** **

** _Every little thing The Reflex does,_ **

** **

Stammering, breathing erratic, “please..somebody h-_help_ me.”

It was barely above a whisper.

  
“_Simon_.”

John didn’t have the strength to say any more.

** _Leaves unanswered with a question mark._**


	41. You’re Looking At Planet Earth

He was a heap of black and red on the floor, crying and shaking, bottom lip quivering and eyes screwing shut tight. The pain was blinding, all over, he felt both numb and a thousand tiny needles were stabbing at him from within.

John was yelling, it was raw and throaty, hands clawing at his chest. Hands losing purchase.

He couldn’t comprehend how long it took for them to find him.

There were voices yelling to each other, growing blurry as his eyes were clouded by tears.

“John, John! It’s okay, it’s okay, can you ‘ear me?” Two huge hands were on him, wiping at his wet cheeks. “Johnny, I’m here. It’s happening, okay, just _breathe_, I need you to _breathe_ for me.”

“Ands?”

Slamming his head back into the floor, John groaned loudly, unable to hold back the dizzying effects of the first contraction.

“Andy! It’s.. oh God. It’s happening, it’s _time!”_ The bassist was trembling in his grasp.

Andy shushed him, “I need ya to keep breathing for me, Johnny.”

His head was swirling and the pain was excruciating.

“Let’s get him up.”

“_No!_” John barked out, limbs trembling and head grounding back into the floor.

He was faced by the four Durans towering over him. John could barely hold their gaze, sweat falling into his eyes as the bassist’s breathing grew more shaky.

“Somebody start timing!”

“I’m on it,” Roger flicked his wrist.

John belted out another scream.

“They’re starting!”

“W-whats.. _what’s_ st-starting Charlie?” His quivering fingers prodded at Simon, voice wavering.

“The _contractions_ John. Just breathe, breathe.” Andy answered for him, smoothing John’s damp hair to one side.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

“Theres no time, they won’t make it!”

“Have you seen the bloody queue to get in here?”

“Security is nuts!”

John was lost in the words, he continued to scream.

“Get him up, get him away from the stage.”

“We can’t have you lying here, John.”

“They can hear you out there.”

“You all didn’t bloody hear me!” John snapped, hands clawing at his gut again.

There was a silence. John yelped, feeling another contraction on the rise.

  
“Voices and other sounds, can you all fuckin’ hear me _now_?!” He belted.

  
The bodies were a dizzying array of fast moving colour, John just had to screw his eyes shut.

“Ands I,” he gripped the guitarist’s trench coat harder, “I’m so.. I’m _terrified_. What if there’s something w-_wrong,” _he croaked, skin growing pale, “and I,”

Andy shushed him again.

“John, I need you to listen to me. We need to get ya out of ‘ere and” Andy’s voice dropped low, “you’ve gotta get ready to push.”

Before John could realise it, he was being hauled to his feet and carried by Simon and Roger. He was dripping in sweat and the pains intensified, gnawing away at his insides.

“Char-agh!” His grip was faltering around the singer, determined not to let himself slip, “oh god, Charlie!”

They deposited his heavy body into a deserted dressing room, the first they could find.

“Simon, I.” Barely able to raise his head off of the floor, John stammered: “I’m sorry, I’m so _sorry_ Charlie,” he groaned, it was loud and sharp, “it.. fuck it, it really.. _hurts_ so ba-ad! I’m sorry I left the stage, miss-_missed_ the end before we could both tell—”

Swallowing his gasp, John stalled as Simon’s lips slammed into his. John didn’t fight anyone: he let himself be stripped him of his satin cloak. There were fingers running through his belt loops, trailing closer to his chest.

“Please,” he hiccuped, “please.. Simon, get out of here!” John was in hysterics, trousers being yanked from him. “You can’t.. fuck, you can’t _see_ me like _this!”_

“Bullshit, I’m not going anywhere.” Simon silenced him.

John had lost track of his and Andy’s hands, they were moving far too quick for him.

“Simon, please!”

He lunged forward, screaming again.

“I’m not missing the birth of my child, John.”

John’s bloodshot eyes shot upwards, his mouth was working fast.

“You won’t wan-,” he coughed, “won’t wanna… shit, agh, _sleep_ with me ever again!”

Unusually harsh, “shut the fuck up, John! Now isn’t the time for that, okay baby?”

Hearing Simon say _baby_ like that immediately chilled his skin.

“Mmkay, I’ll ah! W-where’s Nick?” John groaned, eyes darting about the room.

“He’s calling the hospital,” Roger stated, before starting to time John’s yelling again. “They’re getting closer.”

“What, Rog, wh-what does.. _that_ mean?” John croaked out, glassy eyes landing on Andy.

“She’s close Johnny, real close.”

“How can _you_ tell?” The doubt was audible as Simon turned to him. “You’re not a doctor, Ands, you’re a chef!”

“_Was_” Andy corrected him, “and I’m all you’ve got now JT so stop talkin’ and _push_ already!”

John screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to think about the bloodbath Andy and Simon were surely seeing. He was panting, flush and panting, hands balling into fists as another contraction ripped through him.

“It’s hurts so,” he yelled. “So. Fuckin’. Much!”

Both Andy and Simon were silent.

“W-wha, Ands, what’s happening?” John cried out, body quivering beneath him. “Please agh, what’s happening?!”

There was a pause, a scramble for some towels and Roger was now beside him, cradling his head.

“John, I’m just gonna come out and say it,” John clung to every word, “she’s, uh,” there was a pause, “almost there, crowning.”

“It’s time to start pushing, baby.”

“Charlie, I,” he groaned, clutching at Roger’s thigh this time, “I can’t.. I, I can’t have her _here!_”

“You’ve got no choice Johnny, she’s impatient just like you.” Andy was blunt, rolling up his sleeves and coaxing Simon to do the same.

“Ands please, I.. I can’t..” John’s throat was full of salt, “I can’t ask you to do this, _please!_”

“John, there’s no time for that now.”

Throwing his head up, John winced. He had never heard such assertiveness from the guitarist before. This really was important.

“How am I forming coherent thoughts?!” He blurted.

“John, Johnny look at me, _look_ at me,” Andy’s voice was remarkably calm and Roger helped to ease John up, “I’m the only one of us who’s done this and knowing my lass I’ll be doin’ it again real soon.”

“Ands, I—” John cut himself off, moans ripping themselves from his throat.

  
“I’m no doctor Johnny but if ya ever trusted me before, you’ll shut the hell up and do it again.”

“They’re growing closer,” Roger uttered, slipping his blazer from his arms and tossing it aside.

  
Slamming his head against Roger’s thigh, John let out a throaty whine. The pains were becoming unbearable, he hadn’t a clue what he could and couldn’t feel.

“JT, come on.”

Struggling for breath, John gulped all that he could.

“I motherfucking _trust_ you, Ands. Don’t kill me.”

He wrenched his eyes open for long enough to see that beaming smile from the Taylor before him.

The door creaked open and Nick threw himself into the room.

“Nick, I, please no.” John stammered out, bloodshot eyes tracing all over the keyboardist, “I don’t want.. you shouldn’t see me like this!”

“Nigel.”

“You’ve put up,” he sniffed, tears streaming, “put up with so m-_much_ of my shit and—”

“Nigel.”

“I- just no Nick, don’t _look_ at me!” John momentarily stopped his whimpering, tears coating his cheeks. Forgetting to breathe.

“Nigel, that’s absurd. It’s my job to take care of you, it has been since we first met.” Nick’s tone was light, pasty lips smiling. “There are far too many people here, do you want us to go?”

Puzzled by the soothing sounds of his big brothers rationality, sweating like mad, John raised a trembling finger forward.

“You’re not gon’ like what you’ll see, Bates.” Stumbling over his words, John hissed as another contraction ruptured his insides.

“I’ve dealt with worse. Don’t think about that now, just _breathe_ Nigel, breathe.”

“Oh mother _fucker!_” John rasped, trembling his way through it.

The muted whisper of fabric told him something was being laid down. The sudden touches told him that there were Duran’s going where no Duran (except one, the one who had caused this mess in the first place) had gone before.

With a smile, “the shit I do for you, John” Andy choked out, deft hands disappearing under his white satin shirt. “Swear to God.”

Without word, Simon grabbed a hold of John’s sweat slick palm and didn’t let go.

“John, John, you’re gonna have too...” Simon paused, eyes blowing wide, “Push. She’s coming.”

“Out of _where?!_”

“I don’t bloody know!” Simon tossed back as John squeezed his hand tighter. “Just _push!_”

Screaming from the roof tops, “_what_ am I bloody pushing?!”

There was a ruffle again from beneath his shirt, he was now laying atop a sea of towels, being eased up so he could part his legs and properly brace himself.

“How many times did I tell you to go to those Lamaze—”

John steamrolled straight over Nick.

“— I, ugh, fri-fricking _went… fuck!_ To them, alright, just somebody freakin’ tell me” he struggled for breath, “_where_ is—”

“—There’s a head!” Simon was mesmerised, his voice was all that John could cling too.

“Sweet mother of- _fuck!_”

“Nigel, come on, you can do it.”

“Somebody count me in,” he stammered, slamming his head back onto Roger again.

There was a moment of confusion, John’s shrill scream bought each band mate out of their daze.

It dawned on Roger, the count, the beat. The beat it equated too. Not quite a heart beat. Taylor telepathy, once again. John immediately shivered, connection running deep.

“_Wild Boys.”_ The drummer simply stated.

“Wild Boys” John repeated, shaking like mad, “wild boys.. the wi-yled boys are.. c-call-“ he broke off, grunting, “on the-their way.. back from tha.. the fire.”

“Push John, c’mon!”

“Guide me Rog, drum it in.. the intro.”

He wrenched open his eyes, bloodshot and bleary; signalling to Simon what he needed to do. He needed a beat, something to cling on too.

Creeping forward, Simon took him into his grip again. Roger at his back, Nick and Andy before him and—

“Wild Boys! Never lo-ose I-it!”

“Wild Boys, Wild Boys!”

“Never chose this way!”

The pulsing beat rang through John, he worked with the tempo. Roger ‘drummed’ behind him, guiding his bass from within.

“You’ve got sirens, for a welcome!”

“There’s blood stain for your pain!”

“No shit!” John kicked out.

“And your telephones been ringing while you’re dancing in the rain!”

“Somebody fuckin’ _kill_ me already!” John blurted out, before screaming his throat raw. “You!” He pointed to Simon, “you did this to me! I’m never, never lettin’ you in me again- _fuck!_”

John pushed and Andy pulled, hitting the accents, craning John’s legs up and he was groaning and grunting his way through.

“They try to tame you, looks like they’ll try again!”

  
“Wild Boys! Wild Boys!”

“Imma fuckin’ die.”

“Wild Boys! Never close your eyes!”

“Wild Boys always—” Simon’s voice was dulled, overtaken by a new star of the show.

  
“..._shine_.” It dropped off of John’s lips, a single breath and barely audible.

The cries were beautiful, lighting up the room. Surpassing John and his pants, he shook the sweat from his eyes and the tears were running free again. He couldn’t control them, sniffling and choking his way through sob after sob.

“Somebody have the time?” Nick posed, signalling to Roger.

“That’s,” he began, croaking, “that’s my” he and Simon held a hand out and Andy scooted closer.

“9:27 PM, still July 13th.”

“That’s _our,_” Simon was right there with him, tears filling his eyes and biting into his bottom lip.

“I need another” Andy was silenced, Roger tossing his blazer into his arms. “You sure, Froggy?”

“I can get another, this is more important and just look at your coat.” Roger just smiled.

“Andy don’t you dare look down at yourself.” Nick giggled, eyes pointlessly averted. 

The little cries were precious, filling the room. John was overwhelmed, eyes following the little bundle of blue as Andy cleaned her best he could and Nick’s deft fingers helped to wrap her up. John’s fingers were now stopping their tremble, searching for Simon’s sides as together they broke down again, watching enthralled as Andy rose to his knees. He crawled over and John’s voice hitched in his throat.

John choked on air.

His bleary eyes fell upon his fingers entwined with Simon’s who nodded before braking away. The singer’s knuckles were bruised, tinged red and John flashed him a wry smile: an apology that neither man needed to hear. Immediately, John bought his arms up into a cradling position and watched, full of love, as Andy eased her into his arms.

“She’s.”

The quivering mess that was John in that moment was truly beautiful, gaze transfixed, teary eyes blown wide.

“She’s..”

Stumbling over what to say first, he turned to Simon. What John found in his gaze wasn’t the words he was after, he found the singer’s lips quivering, cheeks flushed and he was blinking rapidly. Simon has never looked so beautiful to him before.

“Kiss me, Charlie.”

With a chuckle, Simon cocked a brow.

“You don’t have to tell me twice, babe.”

With a sudden rush of energy; John craned his neck and Simon took the hint, letting their lips lock in a slow, sensual kiss. There were bolts of lightning igniting between them that were mind shattering and making his heart fill and swell. John was electrified, bought back to life, in a whole new way.

It excited him, terrified him. Petrified him and yet, he didn’t want to break away.

The need for air grew intense and they parted, John felt the air rush back into his lungs again and he clutched her tighter. He was never letting go.

“Hi,” he croaked out, with the biggest smile to ever caress his face, “hi Barbie, I’ve been..” he gulped, “I’ve been waiting so damn long to _meet_ you.”

John’s voice was small, precious, touching each band member in a different way.

“I’m your uh,” he paused, as Simon’s deft fingertips swept the sweat from his brow.

Leaning over, Simon stated, “he’s your daddy, Barbie.”

“_Mummy._” John corrected, with a small chuckle, “who needs correct labels?”

For the first time, nobody was laughing at him over the word. The title felt prestigious, like he had earned it after all of these horrific months.

“Wait, _Barbie?_” Nick’s hazel eyes widened, “Nigel, please do not tell me that you’re naming my niece after that—”

Nobody could strip this away from him.

“Nick, do you really think that I would, you know, stoop _that_ low?” Upon seeing the pout, the furrowed raven brows, John enlightened him.

“Yes Nigel, I really do!” Nick joked, flashing him a huge smile. “Its safe to say that we all would assume that.”

Making way for Simon, John’s eyes fell to Roger as he crept aside. He moaned; poorly stifling it by sucking on his bottom lip upon feeling the heat of Simon. All of Simon, surrounding him.

The heat beneath John’s winter let Simon in.

“Tell them, baby.” Simon swooped down, planting a huge kiss atop of John’s sweaty cheeks.

Struggling to sit up, John ensured that his back was flush with Simon’s chest. Strong, supportive… Simon. His Simon.

“Barbarella _Diana_” there was a pause, a hum of understanding, “Taylor Le Bon,” the waterworks threatened to burst again, “this is _Planet Earth_.”

Barbarella stopped crying, falling fast asleep in his soothing arms. John began to rock her back and fourth and back and fourth; the movements slow and serene.

“You’re lookin’ at _Planet Earth._” Simon finished for him, velvety voice on key for the first time that night. On key for the first time in a long time.

  
Nick, Roger and Andy had a moment.

“Bop b-bop, b-bop bop b-bop” they crooned, chuckling throughout.

“Diana?” Roger eyed John, both sets of chocolate browns gleaming.

John nodded, clutching his baby Barbarella tighter; submerged in a sea of _Anthony Price._

“After her would be Godmother if.. you know, that was uh.. _legal_.”

There was a beat of silence. Looks of confusion and wonder then laughter filled the air again.

“I already asked her and she loved the idea, the princess. She told me she was honoured, I had never felt so alive.” John admitted, letting his body fall back into Simon’s supportive frame.

“When did ya?” Andy began, piecing it together. “The _premier_. Goddamn, you’re good JT!”

Chuckling, John bumped Andy’s shoulder.

“I’d been thinking ‘bout it for a real long time,” John admitted. “Very comforting.”

Their eyes met, shattered brown on a tired pale and it spoke volumes, volumes of shredded guitars, between the two Taylors. John could never thank him enough for today, this night. Right now.  
  


He owed Andy a life debt. Two of them, technically.

“Oh my good God!” John bolted upright.

“What is it Johnny?” His eyes fell to Roger’s warm smile, the other two Taylors now sat beside one another at his feet.

“He, he didn’t _kill_ me!” John motioned to the guitarist, chuckling, “I owe you my life!”

There was a moment, John’s eyes focusing on Andy as he shifted and began to crawl towards him.

“And Barbie’s!”

He hovered there millimetres from John’s sweat stained face, his lips pursed. With a gulp, John followed Andy’s movements, a smooth hand coming to rest across his cheek. The guitarist swept away another tear as a rolled languidly down and John was leaning into it, the small and tender embrace.

Reeling John in even closer, noses almost touching, Andy found his voice.

“Don’t mention it. Just gimme more long solo’s for the tour.” He winked.

“Holy shit, the _tour!_”

“One thing at a time, Tigger” Andy laughed, breaking the touch. “_One_ thing at a time.”

John slumped there for however long with Simon at his back, breaths deepening and he fell into step, perfectly in time with Simon. He caught a chill, sweaty skin finally beginning to feel like his once more. Eventually the paramedics made it and John was more than happy to be taken to the hospital. They needed to check her over, ensure that he too was okay.

Although it terrified him, sent his teeth plummeting into his lip again, John knew what he had to do. He had caught a second wind and couldn’t thank the Gods enough: there wasn’t a Duran who left his side.

Together the five of them, albeit more than a little ruffled and totally scarred for life, emerged from the stadium doors. He may have had an ambulance in sight in this moment, not exactly the first of many but, with Simon a step to the left and baby Barbarella a flick to the right, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he regretted it. Any of it.  
  


***  
  


Stirring from a short nap, John pried open his eyes and squinted. He hissed at the bright white light that momentarily blinded him, arm automatically shooting out to his right, hunting for his glasses. He was beaten too it, as they were being carefully slid onto his face, brightening him up. Everything becoming crystal clear.

John endured the moment of his tired eyes shamelessly roaming the man beside him with rumpled black hair and small bags under his eyes. He was draped over John on his bed, a tender arm around his neck and pesky digits wandering up into his ruffled hair. They interweaved with the brunette curls that were screaming to be washed but he didn’t seem to mind, giving the locks a slight tug.

“They want you to try and _feed_ her again, babe.” John sighed as the weight of the bed shifted. “Are you up that?”

  
John nodded, unable to hide his smile.

He raised a palm, catching sight of the tube running from it, and bid farewell to his nurse. Atlanta: a true darling.

_What a lovely and intriguing name._

“Okay, let’s try again.”

John’s gaze was soft, running all over Simon before singling out the little ball of pastel pink fluff that he clutched tight in his arms. Holding his breath, John stiffened as he watched the singer step closer and closer. Carefully Simon handed her over and John immediately cradled her head, insecurities bleeding away, talented hands smoothing down her tiny blanket.

“Can’t wait to get’cha outta this and into something black!” John grinned, motioning to the dusty pink that encased her fragile frame.

Barbarella was awake, eyes wide and she was gaping at him. John’s grin was huge, his own eyes sparkling. He never wanted to let Barbarella go.

“Hey, hey Barbie! Is anybody hungry?” John was beaming, words rolling off of his tongue in lieu of a certain special someone, itching to try it again. He prayed that this time Barbarella would get it, latch on.

Only when he registered that Simon’s naughty fingers had trailed a little low down his chest did John break his gaze.

“Oh somebody’s _hungry_ alright.”

“Cheeky, cheeky!” He barked, helping Simon to slip his shirt from him.

Their laughter intermingled, the perfect pitch, and Simon resumed his position at John’s side. Squeezing into the tiny bed, John grinned at the notion of where Simon’s teasing digits could wander too next.

Tipping his head back, John let his eyes slip shut. He inhaled a deep breath as they peeled themselves back open, eyelashes fanning, immediately falling to the very hungry baby being cuddled in his no longer so lanky arms.

“You can do it Johnny, just _Relax... don’t do it. When ya wanna’ come!_”

  
Who’s idea was the _Wild Boys_ mashup anyways?

Giggling, John bought Barbarella in close so she could rest right above his breast: right above his throbbing heart.

“She better suck it, not bleedin’ _chew_ it!”

He yelped, eyes momentarily bugging out of his head.

“Holy..” John began, “this is the… uh, the _weirdest_ freaking thing Charlie!” His gaze met Simon’s, who’s own irises were also engorged. “What am I even? Shit... How did we get too _this?!_”

Simon didn’t answer.

“Charlie?” John tried again. “Luv?”

Simon snapped his head towards him.

“I said, how did we—” John broke away, cocking his head.

It was then that it hit him, hit John straight in the heart. Simon was smiling, wild and free, upturned lips beckoning John to them and he couldn’t resist tasting Simon again. Their lips danced a slow kiss, full of promises of what was to come; the love and adoration they both held for each other. It sang of the protection they both had over the tiny little thing they called their own, their one and only.

“I love you so much, Nigel.” Simon nudged his glasses and John’s heart near beat its way out of his chest. “To the moon and back.”

Smiling, the bassist locked his gaze back onto the singer.

“Ugh, cringe. I love you, _Simon_, to the moon and back too.”

With a giggle, a sudden perverse glint in his eye, it dawned on John: the greatest gift they got this year was trying to milk him dry. He was thankful for the pump.

“You’re wondering what it tastes like, aren’t you?” John chuckled, waggling his eyebrows.

“It’s just, it’s incredible!” Simon’s voice was full of wonder, loving gaze on Barbarella again.

There was a moment of silence. Only a tiny sucking sound filled the room. Casting a glance to the baby girl balloons and cards that littered a small table, John posed a question.

“Do you think that uh, the whole stadium heard me screaming at you?”

Simon barked out a laugh, hands returning to run through John’s overgrown hair again. He tugged lightly, playfully, massaging his head.

“I think the entirety of _Philadelphia_ bloody well heard you, John.”

“Did I single handedly ruin every friendship?”

They both chuckled, the shocked looks on each Duran’s face flowing to the forefront of John’s shattered mind.

“No Duran shall ever speak of what happened in there. Not now, not tomorrow, not some thirty years from now when nobody knows our name anymore Johnny. _Never_ again.”

  
“Forty? Twenty.. uh, shit, twenty-five?”

“... Not even then.”

John hummed his agreement.

“Christ, she’s hungrier than the wolf, Johnny.”

He let out a little laugh, smile not quite reaching the fondness in his eyes. Narrowing his gaze, John cocked his head to his left. He claimed Simon’s lips in his own again, sparks re-igniting between them and running wild through him.

“That she is Charlie, that she is.”

***  
  


Simon, Andy, Nick and Roger had well and truly _danced into the fire _with John, for John, in-spite of John but that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered now was lying up ahead, the twists and turns it all would bring. The insecurities and the doubt that both John and Nigel would have to face. John being John and letting Nigel, wherever he may be, surface again. To let Nigel have his spotlight.

What mattered now was the biggest step of both John and Nigel’s lives that together they would both be taking. Hand in hand with Simon, singing blue silver as the _Notorious_ trio. 

  
And, to hell with it,_ that’s why they’d do it again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it, I made it! I’m emotional, really, that it’s over. This story, the verse I’ve created, it really means so incredibly much to me: I can’t thank you all enough!
> 
> For sticking by me, for not shutting this fic out because of its nature. For not letting anything in regards to my age or the fact that this is the first Duran fic I have written her in the way. For giving me a chance. I never would have thought I had it in me, I’ve never written anything so in depth and gut wrenching before. But hey, what a way to start!
> 
> I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I cannot thank you all enough. From the bottom of my heart, as a fandom you have made me feel so welcome and I love you all so much! Thanks for helping a girl through a hell of a tough time. This fic saved me, you all really have. ❤️
> 
> Keep an eye out for me in the tag. It’s the first fic of many in this series, I‘m sure! 
> 
> Tash x 🥰🥰


End file.
